JUST ONE NIGHT
by Amandah Leigh
Summary: He's Hogwarts Headmaster. She's the youngest ever Minister for Magic. They're both trapped in unhappy marriages, but now would not be a good time for either to leave. After a heated argument one evening they find themselves inexplicably together, seeking solace and satiation. But "just one night" turns into much, much more. Story of an unforgettable -and unforgivable- affair. HGSS
1. One Night: October 2010

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

He's currently the Hogwarts' Headmaster. She's the youngest ever Minister for Magic. They're both trapped in unhappy marriages, but now would not be a good time for either to leave. After a heated argument one evening, they find themselves inexplicably drawn together, seeking solace and satiation... but "just one night" turns into much, much more. Story of an unforgettable - and unforgivable - affair.

 **HGSS (SNAMIONE)**

 **PWP: Romance & Hurt/Comfort**

Notes: 

This chapter is smut-free but future ones are lemon-heavy. Fic is M-Rated and plot is largely secondary.

Some references to past child abuse and sexual assault but _not_ graphic or explicit. May contain a *light* foray into the world of BDSM in later chapters.

No in-chapter Trigger Warnings. The above covers the entire fic. Please be advised.

DH compliant save for Snape's death. Somewhat canon with Epilogue and Cursed Child.

Also, I'm not a fan of Ron, so if he's one of your favorites, be forewarned. (Sorry.)

* * *

 **JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER ONE:**

 **ONE NIGHT**

 **OCTOBER 2010**

"She wants another child."

Severus' words were spoken so quietly, Hermione nearly mistook them for her own thoughts. He was on his back in the dark, facing the ceiling, his face emotionless. She was on her back beside him, her head on the pillow he'd purchased only after this – _whatever it was_ – started between them two years ago, a gift for her neither ever acknowledged, though she appreciated it. They were protected from the cool chill of the castle by the heavily weighted blanket over their naked bodies, though it was dampened by their sweat and could not cover up their mutually committed sins. Across the room beyond the foot of the bed, stars were visible through large windows. The only other light in the room came from a dying fire, one he could stoke with the simple twitch of his wand, but he chose not to. She was beside him in his bed at Hogwarts, a bed nearly as familiar to her as her own, and yet completely foreign.

"And you?" she asked after a pause, directing her words into the darkness above her head. "Do you desire another child, Headmaster?"

"I did not desire the first, nor did I ask for the second," he answered, his voice deep and without inflection. "Delphini was forced upon me by a madman seeking a gift for his most devout follower. Iris was... a surprise."

"And yet you've raised them." She tried not to picture her own children as they spoke, for to see their faces in her mind's eye would bring up the ever-present but forcibly repressed guilt she always carried around with her, like the magical bag she'd taken on the run with Harry during what should have been their seventh year. Her children meant the world to her, bright spots in a dark world without her parents.

She, like Severus, had two: Rose, with her wide brown eyes and freckled face, and Hugo, with his missing front teeth and ears that stuck out. She gave little emotional consideration to her cuckolded husband, for she knew he'd long been seeking satisfaction elsewhere, but she couldn't stomach the thought of hurting the two little people who meant more to her than anyone else in the world ever could. She had to be leaving soon. She couldn't stay out all night. Not again.

"Do you love them?"

She'd never asked him such a deeply personal question before. They rarely discussed anything personal. During daylight hours, their interactions were strictly professional. She was the Minister for Magic, elected two years ago, only a decade after the end of the second war with the Dark Lord Voldemort. He was the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, returned to the post four years ago upon the death of Minerva McGonagall. Aside from a polite, "How is your family?" or "How have you been?" they did not pry into each other's business. They met, they worked, and they parted ways.

Except when they didn't part ways.

Except when they ended up in bed.

"I love them as much as I'm able," he answered finally, after a too-long pause. "I genuinely wish I could be a better father but children make me uncomfortable. I do not know how to interact with them, as the only attention I received from my own father was brutally negative. I am unable to show adequate affection, as the little one's mother laments and about which the elder's aunt has long lectured me. When I see Delphini in the Great Hall, I greet her as I might any other student, and she replies, 'Afternoon, Father,' but the word Father... she could be addressing anyone. Substitute another title – Headmaster, Healer, Professor, Minister – and there it would be: the same polite detachment."

"What of Iris?"

There was a part of Hermione, the smallest, most beaten down desperate and depressed attention-starved part of her, that wanted to roll onto her side and throw an arm around his body, to rest her head on the center of his chest, to be held by him as one would be a lover, or even a friend, but she knew he would eschew such contact and she did not relish the thought of being unceremoniously ejected from his bed any sooner than absolutely necessary. However, unable to stop herself, her hand inched away from her hip, just a bit, flat against the mattress until her pinky finger was barely brushing against his. If he felt this light touch, he did not indicate.

"Iris turned five shortly before term began. I see her only in the summers and when she visits over Christmas. I hardly know her and she does not seem to know what to make of me. When I am around, she regards me as one might a strange dog, as if she'd like to approach, as if she's hoping for affection, but is afraid I may bite. I buy her Chocolate Frogs and Ice Mice and tell her that she's grown, I give her mother money for her care, I write the girl that I love her, and I hope it's enough."

"Have you spoken with Narcissa and Lucius about Delphini?"

"No. My attempts to contribute to her care – financially – have been rebuked, as they see any monetary offer as an insult. Narcissa encouraged me to visit during the summer to see her away from an academic atmosphere, which I did, several times, but I have little to discuss with the girl. She is aware that I loathed her mother. She has no interest in playing the role of Big Sister. And she no longer seems inexplicably excited to see me, as she was in her younger years. When she asks me questions, they're about Potions or Defense or Charms, as she strives for high marks, but she does not seem to concern herself with me as anything more than a fountain of information capable of rewarding or deducting House Points."

Hermione couldn't help letting out a small sigh. She imagined this apparent disinterest of his must be much tougher on the Snape girls than he realized, but she also knew, from over two years of having been with him in this way, of listening to him speak of them only when at his most open and vulnerable, that he cared more than he let on. He was afraid to fail at fatherhood, afraid to hurt them, so he kept his distance, assuring Hermione that both girls were better off this way, but they both knew this was a lie he told himself.

"Have you told Hestia of your disinterest in the possibility of more children?" She did not enquire as to whether he loved his wife, Hestia Jones, former Auror, for she was certain the answer would be no... and yet she was afraid the answer might be yes.

"I've told Hestia in no uncertain terms that she is not to conceive again unless she finds another man with whom to do so, and further stated if she would like a divorce I would graciously grant her one. She said that wouldn't be necessary, but I believe she intends to wear me down until I consent to..." He cleared his throat and closed his eyes. "Clearly, she is a persuasive witch."

"She should marry Ron." Hermione boldly slipped her hand over his between them on the bed. Strange that their nakedness should not be cause for embarrassment or indicative of intimacy, but a hand over a hand could potentially mean so much. She was pleasantly surprised when he allowed this contact. "Ron may want more children."

"But not by you?"

"I have a daughter, I have a son, and I have the career I only hardly dared to dream about during my Hogwarts days. I am content."

"Are you, Minister? Are you _content?"_

 _"Yes,"_ she insisted, but something in his tone – a subtle change, an indescribable one – made her breath hitch in her throat. The truth was, she was _not_ content, had not been for several years, since before this inexplicable affair commenced, which was what led her into his arms, and, shortly thereafter, his bed, in the first place. She wondered whether he would believe her. She soon got her answer.

"In general, Minister, I make it a habit not to bed women who lie to me."

 _Fuck._

"In that case, Headmaster, I shall take my leave." She moved to slide out from under the warmth of his bedclothes, intending to dress, walk to Hogsmeade, and apparate home to her husband, but to her shock he gripped the hand that had been atop his.

"Stay," he said, an urgency in his tone that she needed to hear. "It's just one night."

"It's always 'just one night' with you," she replied, but she returned to her back under the blanket, her heart fluttering when he did not release her hand. "I'll send my husband a message by Patronus informing him I've been called away on Ministry business."

"Tell him not to worry," said Severus, though they both knew the man would not worry. "Tell him it's just one night."

* * *

 **A/N:**

This fic is Hermione/Severus ( _obviously_ ) and takes place between 2008-2013, jumping back and forth in time and opening in October 2010. The back story will be explained later, but be aware from Go that this is a fic about two unhappily married adults engaging in an affair, so if cheating is super off-putting for you, you may not wish to continue this one. This is also M- Rated and will be much more lemon-heavy than my current WIPs: Stages of Grief and All Roads Lead to Rome. Some chapters will be more PwithoutP than PwithP. Very few, like this one, will not have any smut stuff, but most will have at least one citrus scene. Chapters are relatively short (1000-3000 words) and I'm anticipating updating only 1x per week once Stages of Grief is complete so I can also refocus on All Roads Lead to Rome, which has been giving me trouble as of late.

Thanks for reading! As always, I shamelessly beg of you, please review!

 **-AL**


	2. One Kiss: December 2009

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER TWO:**

 **ONE KISS**

 **DECEMBER 2009**

He adjusted his body on top of hers, flattening himself against her, one hand on her upper thigh, the other lost in the tangled curls of her shoulder-length hair. His mouth met hers again... and again... and again... His tongue slipped into her mouth, his teeth scraped over her bottom lip... He was drinking her down... again... again... again.

She groaned into his open mouth, feeling tipsy from the hot cinnamon whiskey taste on his tongue.

They'd been sleeping together for over a year and, until tonight, he'd never kissed her, nor had he let her kiss him, at least not on the mouth. He'd run his tongue over her breasts and used it to explore between her legs, sucked on the side of her neck and bit the back of her shoulder, but his lips never met hers and when she tried to capture his he'd turned his head, nonverbally rebuking her attempt.

Tonight, for reasons unexplained, was different.

 _He_ was different.

And she didn't know why...

But she liked it.

It was four days before Christmas, one day before he would leave Hogwarts to head home for the holiday to spend time with his wife and younger daughter, and six days after the 12th birthday of his older daughter.

She brought him a bottle of Firewhisky as a Christmas gift, even though doing so might be crossing a line. He sat at his desk, as usual, with portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses behind him. He tilted back in his chair, regarding her carefully, as he twisted the cap of the alcohol. Upon summoning over two tumblers, he poured them each a generous glass, passing one across the desk to her.

"I do not usually drink during work hours, Headmaster," she said, but she took the glass, letting her fingers brush against his.

He inclined his head in the direction of the window, through which moonlight streamed.

"It may have escaped your notice, Minister, but we are outside the usual working hours."

She nodded but did not lift the glass to her lips. He, on the other hand, downed nearly half in one gulp.

They discussed the school, the Ministry, the Daily Prophet, and the weather.

"Your new staff members seem to be settling in," she said.

"As well as to be expected," he agreed. "It must be challenging at the Ministry at present, given the attempted resurgence of the Knights of Walpurgis."

"They _are_ keeping us busy." She shivered in the chill of the castle, even though his fire was roaring. "It has been a cold December."

"Yes, very," he agreed. "I heard the Ministry has contracted a couple Charms Masters with the hope of developing a new, more effective warming charm."

"Yes!" She brightened. "We have the two exceptionally talented Charms Masters working together with a small team of retired house-elves who are willing to share their magic in order to develop a better one. The benefits are two-fold – not only will such a charm be a plus for witches and wizards, but it gives a sense of purpose and legitimacy to the elves who no longer serve their masters. Additionally, it is a way to remind us all that being non-human does not make a magical creature lesser..."

Conversation flowed more easily from there, but did not delve into personal waters.

She was prepared to depart at half past eight, an hour after arrival, not having taken a single sip of the spirit she'd gifted him. He stood and walked her to the door, thanking her for stopping off at the school even though both knew there was no reason for her to have come; they'd just had an official meeting in late November.

He put out his hand and she took it to shake, but as she attempted to pull away he jerked her forward. Her chest crashed against his, her forehead hit his shoulder, and she gazed up at him with a vague look of surprise as his free hand went to her hip.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she continued to stare up at him. Aside from the very first time, none of their encounters had happened organically. On the contrary, at the end of each of her visits, be they professionally necessary or not, he'd either bid her adieu or ask if she'd like to retire to the sitting room, which was code for sex. Sometimes they'd end up in his bed. Sometimes she'd stay for hours. Twice in these last fifteen months she'd remained with him until sunrise.

Most of the time, though, he threw her onto the couch or bent her over the table and fucked her hard and fast, seeking nothing but his own satisfaction, though it usually resulted in hers, too. She could not discern in advance what kind of night they would have, whether she would leave Hogwarts in the evening feeling empty and aching on account of his apparent lack of interest, or whether she'd end up panting and writhing under him, listening to his deep, calm voice in her ear demanding she fully give in to him.

Tonight he'd bid her adieu.

Adieu meant she would be leaving aching and empty.

So what was this?

She continued to stare up at him, her bright brown eyes meeting his inky black ones, scarcely able to breath, when she suddenly realized his face was drawing closer to hers. His right hand released hers and, a second later, she felt his palm against her face. Gently. More gentle than he'd ever been with her. The pad of his thumb ran back and forth against her cheekbone, tender, purposeful. His head tilted. Her eyes closed.

He was going to kiss her.

But... _was_ _he_ going to kiss her?

He'd _never_ kissed her. Never allowed her to kiss him.

And then...

His lower lip brushed against both of hers, first her top, then bottom, as his mouth opened slightly. When their lips met, his were parted, hers were not, but he made no further attempt to deepen this kiss. He kissed her as a couple might on their wedding day – with enough passion to express the longing and attraction behind it, but with the reverence necessary when in the presence of witnesses... which they were.

"She's married," said the scolding voice of Minerva McGonagall from her portrait, hung directly beside that of Dumbledore. "She's married and so are you."

Hermione felt the familiar weight of guilt heavy on her chest, making her feel as if she was being buried under stones, but when Severus sucked her bottom lip between his, holding more tightly to her head and her body, she felt her knees buckle. He acted as though he hadn't heard his former boss; he was highly adept at tuning out both the woman and Dumbledore, who often voiced his own disapproval of the situation. Hermione found doing so more difficult, but tonight, she was determine to block out any distractions.

They'd been sleeping together over a year and in all the times she'd fantasized about being kissed by him, she'd never imagined it quite like this. So soft. So sensual. Full of longing. Arousing.

Perfection.

Now her lips parted, granting entrance to his tongue, as the hand on her hip went to her lower back and the hand on her cheek threaded under the back of her plaited hair. He tasted of Firewhisky and smelled of clean cotton and she couldn't help emitting a whimper into his mouth when she felt the evidence of his growing erection against her abdomen.

When his lips finally left hers she felt empty and incomplete, but only for a moment. He kissed her cheek and her temple and the spot just before her ear, and finally her upper body remembered how it worked so she wrapped her arms around him, unwilling to let him let her go.

"Not my sitting room," he said in a low voice, directly into her ear, which caused a tug in her lower belly and sent a flood of warmth between her legs. "In my bed. I need you in my bed tonight."

"Just one night," she whispered, which had become their mantra whether that night lasted an hour or eight.

"All night," he specified, sending another shiver through her as his hand gripped her arse. "I intend to use my mouth on you in any way you'll permit me, to ravish and ravage you, to capture your tongue and drink you down, to taste you with my tongue – to taste you _everywhere_ – and to do so all night."

This statement made her brain go fuzzy. It made her pussy clench and her toes curl and her heart race, and the best response she could manage was a nod just before his lips against captured hers in another searing, sinful kiss. His voice could bring her to orgasm – he'd done it before – and the anticipation of what was to come was nearly enough to make her weep, to make her go weak with want for him. Now she was the one with her palm to his cheek, her head tilted just so, lapping and sucking at his tongue and nipping at his lower lip and wondering whether he'd have to carry her to the bedroom, as she wasn't certain she had the strength to walk.

As if he'd read her mind (or perhaps he had indeed read her mind), he lifted her with one arm around her back and the other looped under her knees. She closed her eyes and didn't open them again until she felt her back sinking into his soft mattress. His hands went to her hair as he sucked her lower lip between his, running his tongue along it until he'd freed her frazzled mane from the confines of its braid. She moaned as his fingers threaded through her tangles and curls, while his other hand ran down the length of her body, over her breast, down her midsection, to her hip, to her thigh... She bent up her legs, allowing him to nestle between them, his groin against hers. He was hard and she couldn't keep herself from thrusting against him, wanting his cock unrestrained from his trousers, wanting it throbbing hot in her hand, jerking into her mouth, buried deep in her quim... anywhere.

He adjusted his body on top of hers, flattening himself against her, one hand on her upper thigh, the other lost in the tangled curls of her shoulder-length hair. His mouth met hers again... and again... and again... His tongue slipped into her mouth, his teeth scraped over her bottom lip... He was drinking her down... again... again... again. She groaned into his open mouth, feeling tipsy from the hot cinnamon whiskey taste on his tongue.

"With which part of my body shall I fuck you first, Minister?" he asked in a low growl. "And in which part of yours?"

She relished this, how he talked to her during sex, how he asked questions and made demands, how he could switch from vulgar, dirty talk to sensual, almost-romantic words of endearment, how he could call it fucking and reference her cunt then call her brilliant and worship her vulva all in one breath, making her simultaneously feel like a lady and a whore, conflicting sensations she loved when combined.

"Keep kissing me," she asked, knowing to do so was a risk, as she might inadvertently wake him up to this presumably unintentional new intimacy and make him regret having given into it. To her pleasant surprise, he obliged, drinking her down just as he'd promised.

He undressed her slowly as their lips met over and over. He took his time with every tiny black button on the crimson and navy blue dress she wore, one she hoped made her look professional and approachable at once, for as the Minister she wanted to convey that she was in charge, but also that she was on an equal plane with her people.

"You are an uninspired dresser," said Severus as he pushed the material off her shoulders, having unbuttoned it from collar to hem and removing it from her like a coat. He tossed it carelessly to his floor, not caring whether she returned home rumpled and wrinkled.

"I don't dress for you," she said, glaring defiantly down at him as he sunk his teeth into the center front band of her bra, between her breasts. But she arched her back into his touch when he brought his hands up over her chest, palming each over the lacy silk before dipping this thumbs under the cups to bring her nipples to hard peaks.

"Don't you?" He glanced up at her with one eyebrow raised as he fingered the lace trim of her moss green bra. Her panties, green silk with lace sides, matched, and she felt her cheeks go pink at the realization he knew she'd worn this under her dress with the hope he'd be seeing it later. "You put this on with me in mind. You needn't have. I'd suck your tits regardless of what lingerie you use to cover them... but I appreciate the symbolism."

"Symbolism?" she asked. She lifted her back from the mattress, allowing him to unclasp the bra, which he slid slowly off and tossed to the floor to join her dress.

"Slytherin green hidden under Gryffindor maroon."

"The dress isn't quite maroon."

"You keep this part of yourself hidden..." His mouth wrapped around her areola, sucking hard, and she couldn't fight back a loud moan when his tongue flicked back and forth across the hardened bud in the center of her nipple. His hand went between her legs, rubbing her over the damp silk protecting her clit from his calloused fingers, and she bucked against him.

"I... keep nothing hidden... there is no symbolism here..." It was difficult to get the words out. His mouth left her breast and, without going to the other as expected, traveled down to the waistband of her knickers. His tongue darted under the material, running along her lower belly, dipping down to the top of her mons... freshly waxed in anticipation of this last meeting before the end of the year, leaving her with little hair and even less credibility in her assurance that she hadn't dressed or groomed with him in mind.

"Why must you lie to me, Minister? Did you not run on a campaign of honesty, transparency?"

"That extends to my political life, Head... Headmaster..." She pressed her arse against the mattress, gripping the pillow beneath her head, as he sucked her clit through the green silk. "Not my personal life, as you well know."

"Admit it, Minister: this is my true Christmas gift," he said. "The Firewhisky was but an aperitif, to momentarily quench my thirst while stimulating my appetite in preparation for the upcoming feast."

"You're feasting on me?" she asked, fighting the urge to wrap her fingers in the back of his hair and grind his face between her legs until she exploded like a fizzy drink that's been vigorously shaken before opening. She groaned again as his fingers joined his tongue. One slipped under the material of her knickers, rubbing between her folds, before being removed far too soon. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched as he sucked that finger into his mouth, his hunger for her evident in his dark eyes. They made eye contact. She could not blink.

"Would you like to taste yourself on my tongue, Minister?" His hands went to the lacy sides of her knickers, pinching the material between his thumb and forefingers before drawing them slowly down her legs and off, to join the rest of her clothing on the floor. "Do you know how delicious you are?"

Before she could answer, he buried his tongue between her lips, gripping her inner thighs to keep her legs open, sucking her clit and causing a cascade of wetness to pool between her legs. Though he'd pleasured her before in a number of ways, this, like the kissing, was different tonight. He seemed more intent on bringing her pleasure for the mere sake of doing so than usual, and when her orgasm overwhelmed her he rode it out, letting her legs grip his face instinctively, lapping her up as if she were as thirst-quenching as that Firewhisky.

As her climax ebbed, he moved like a panther back up her body and captured her lips against with his, slipping his tongue into her mouth, making her taste herself for the first time, even though, by this point, she'd been married nearly ten years.

After several seconds of snogging, he fell onto his back beside her, the usual visual representation that whatever had happened between them was now over, but she would not accept this tonight. She rolled onto her side, facing him, and let her hand make its way slowly from his shoulder to his abdomen to his hard cock, still confined by his clothing. She chewed her bottom lip and looked at him. He could read her even without Legilimency. He knew by the way her tongue ran along her bottom lip what she intended to do.

"You don't need to," he said.

"I do," she argued. "You've done for me. I owe you."

"You've already done for me more than you know," he said. She wanted him to elaborate but both knew full well he wouldn't.

"I like the way you taste," she said, her hand working over his erection. His manhood twitched beneath her hand and she smiled. "I like the taste of your tongue. Like cinnamon."

"That would be the Firewhisky." His hand came up to rest upon her cheek again. Her hair hung down, creating a curtain around them, as she leaned forward. "I apologize for not getting you a gift."

"No apology necessary." ( _Fuck_ , she wanted to kiss him again, but she wasn't certain he'd allow it.) "You still want me to stay the night? All night?"

He nodded, brought his hand up to cup her cheek as she was doing to his, and drew her down to him. Just before their lips met, he murmured, "After all, it's just one night."

And then he kissed her. Or she kissed him. Neither could say who closed the gap.

It didn't matter, though.

It didn't matter.

It was just one kiss.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thanks to all those who have decided to Follow this fic, left reviews, and/or added to Favorites!

Each chapter will have a different date and purpose, through which the details of their 'relationship' and what's happening with their marriages (plus everything that's occurred since the war ended) will slowly be revealed, so it's structurally a bit different than my other, more linear fics.

I hope you enjoy!

 **-AL**


	3. One Attack: June 2012

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER THREE:**

 **ONE ATTACK**

 **JUNE 2012**

Four years.

She was going on four years in office. Four years since the retirement of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Four years since she achieved the dream she'd had since her fourth year at Hogwarts. Four years since she'd been officially sworn in by the Wizengamot as the youngest-ever Minister for Magic.

Four years since they first heard whispers of the rising Knights of Walpurgis.

It was late June, the end of the school year. In six days students would head back home for the summer, Severus would head back home to his wife, and Hermione would...

 _Sigh_.

Hermione would start emotionally preparing herself for the fall, when her daughter Rose would board the Hogwarts Express for the first time. Rose would be eleven in July; the years had flown by. Hermione would be thirty-three in September, and she'd been shagging Severus Snape in secret since the night before her twenty-ninth birthday.

She sat alone in his office making small talk with the portraits of Dumbledore and McGonagall while she waited. He was late. They had three official meetings each year, by order of the Ministry during Shacklebolt's early years: One in September, one in December, and one in June. He'd never been late for one before.

She'd never had to sit alone and wait for him.

"How are the children?" asked Minerva's portrait. The Headmistress had met Rose several times before passing away when the girl was five, but had seen little Hugo only twice in that time.

"Rose cannot wait to come to Hogwarts. She's a lot like me, eager to learn, entirely too serious, though she looks more like her father, frazzled ginger hair and freckles. A few of her cousins are already here, so she'll not be alone. She wants to be Sorted into Gryffindor like Freddy or Ravenclaw like Victoire, but she also has Audrey in Hufflepuff."

"And if she's in Slytherin, she'll meet Severus' daughter, Delphini." Minerva said this off-handedly, but Hermione bristled at it. She did not want to think about her daughter meeting his. Not that the two would somehow managed to figure out what their parents were up to on a semi-regular basis, but the thought of them even in the same room together made the contents of her stomach swim.

"I know you think I'm a terrible person–" Hermione began, but the former Headmistress shook her head and held up a painted hand.

"On the contrary, I think you're a very _good_ person. But I think you're doing a terrible thing. You must feel some degree of remorse for your actions. Wouldn't a divorce be better for both you and Mr. Weasley?"

"It's not that simple." Hermione fidgeted in the chair, feeling like a chastened schoolgirl under Professor McGonagall's discerning gaze – the artists had captured her eyes well. "Besides, it isn't as if my getting divorced would mean we could be together. Severus is still married... and I can't even be certain he likes me much."

She never referred to the man as Severus in his presence. Always, he was Headmaster. And she was Minister. This had started out of politeness and respect for their respective titles, but over time, as they grew closer, as their physical intimacy seemed like it might lead to emotional intimacy, the use of titles was necessary to keep them separated. Headmaster and Minister were partitions, fortress walls, intended to remind them with every breath and kiss and thrust that they were nothing more to each other than...

What were they, exactly?

Hermione sighed. If he did not arrive soon, she would have to leave for home. No sense waiting up all night for a man while sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a drafty castle when she could go home and spend all night waiting up for a man from the comfort of her own empty bed. At least, there, she had camomile tea and scented candles and a bright purple vibrator she secretly nicknamed The Half-Blood Prince... Of course, the real thing would be far better than the one that required batteries.

The best thing about her mother moving in after her father's untimely death was that there was always someone there to stay with the children, enabling Hermione to feel less guilty about her overnight "work trips" than she had in the past, when she knew clueless Ron was home wondering when she'd return.

She had given up the wait and was saying goodnight to McGonagall and Dumbledore while reaching for her cloak when the office door opened. There was a scuffling noise and a grunt before it closed again, seemingly of its own volition.

Hermione immediately drew her wand, pointing it at the source of the noise.

"Headmaster?"

"Minister," his voice said weakly. There was a shimmer and his body appeared, having been temporarily disillusioned to allow him to return to the castle unseen.

And for good reason.

He could not stand up straight. His right eye was swollen and already purpling, his overlarge nose looked off-center, he was much paler than usual, and there was drying blood running down from his hairline along the side of his face, dripping onto the high black collar of his frock coat. His hands clutched at his side, and he was limping.

"Headmaster!" Hermione rushed to him, catching him as he half-collapsed. She guided him carefully into the sitting room to the middle of his soft moss green couch, the most comfortable piece of furniture he owned. He winced as he settled upon it, pressing his hand to the left side of his ribs.

"Accio Essence of Murtlap," he said without waving his wand. It flew toward them from a cupboard; Hermione caught it in the air.

"What happened, Headmaster? How can I help?"

"Nothing happened and you cannot. I prefer to manage alone. You are dismissed."

"It is not your place to dismiss me." She narrowed her brown eyes at him, her expression making it clear she resented being addressed as if an insubordinate. "And even if it were, I wouldn't leave you like this."

"Go. I do not need your assistance. I'm... fine."

"Fine?" She pulled a clean white handkerchief from her dress pocket and used it to clean up the thick blood, trying to find the source so she could use the Murtlap on it. It was caked up in his hair, already having started to congeal, but at last she had the area clean enough to apply the Essence. "You told me once you do not make it a habit of going to bed with liars. Unfortunately, it seems I cannot say the same."

He snorted a laugh at this, despite the situation. He then flicked his hand as if to say he was giving in, letting her heal him. The way she straddled his lap to gain the best access to his head wound positioned her breasts right in front of his face, so at least he had something to look at while he was being babied in a most unappreciated way.

"I like this blouse." He brought his hand up to her chest, just under the band of her bra, over her shirt. "The material is thin."

"It was hot today."

"Was it?"

As she worked with her wand to close the gash in the side of his head, he let his hand slip up higher, cupping her breast. He kissed her chest over the material.

"Not now," she scolded, swatting away his hand. "You're hurt. Your eye – someone punched you? And your nose..."

"Was broken. I fixed it with Episkey so I could breathe, but it could use another break and a resetting by a more qualified Healer than I. I was never adept at properly mending broken bones. My ribs are merely bruised, I think." The hand not cupping her chest was unbuttoning her blouse. She ignored this as she did a series of diagnostic spells on him, waving her wand over his person. She also ignored it when he removed her shirt entirely, burying his broken nose in the valley between her breasts. He breathed deeply and groaned, earning an eye-roll from her.

"Are you ever _not_ in the mood for sex?" she asked in a reprimanding tone.

"Yes," he answered, his voice muffled by her chest. "When I'm home with my wife."

She shook her head at this as she used her wand to remove the caked blood from his hair. While she worked, he placed a series of kisses along the supple skin above her bra-line, which was whiter than most of the rest of her, as this was a place the sun did not kiss even in her bathing costume. She was trying to tend to his bruised and blackened eye when he reached up to unclasp her bra, but again she swatted away his hands. Even so, she could feel the familiar poke of his growing erection as he shifted his weight between her legs.

"Who did this?" she asked, sitting back on his thighs, above his knees, away from the bulge in his trousers – the intention being not to stimulate him any further. When he failed to answer, she cradled his battered face in her small hands and studied him. How could he be thinking of sex now, when he was clearly in pain? Why didn't he want her to know what had happened? He must have been ambushed, likely by a group – she couldn't imagine any one wizard could have beaten him this badly. She knew him to be a skilled dueler and hyper-vigilant, especially with threats and dangers mounting every day. "Who attacked you?"

"Guess." He grabbed her breast, roughly this time, and drew toward his mouth, shoving down the cup to lap at her nipple. She moaned when his teeth captured the hardened peak in the center, but it was a pain he knew she enjoyed. He ran his tongue back and forth between his teeth over the bud, causing an instant flood of warmth to pool between her legs, but she had to put a stop to this. She _had_ to. As much as the desire was mutual, he was clearly in no condition.

"The Knights of Walpurgis," she said, not needing confirmation. She removed his hand from her chest, holding it between her own. "How many of them?"

"Half a dozen." He wrestled his hand away, settling it on her arse instead. "Now stop talking and fuck me."

"This is not a good time."

"Do not be ridiculous, Minister. With me, you always have a good time."

"Headmaster!" She extracted herself from his lap, staring down upon him with her fists on her hips. He wouldn't tell her so, but she looked like a super hero from one of the silly comic books his Muggle father had occasionally gifted him as a child. All she needed was a cape. And, perhaps, a shirt.

"If you must know, I was lured to Hogsmeade this evening, about ninety minutes before our meeting was to commence. I'd received a Patronus that I believed to be from Lucius Malfoy. The message, whispered in a strained whisper I now realize was not his, was that he was in dire straits down at Rosemerta's. I was nearly to the pub when I was apprehended, hit with an anti-disapparition spell, and knocked unconscious by physical means – that's what caused the blood spilling from my head. Though I regained consciousness at least twice during the attack, I do not know what I was hit with or whether they assaulted me with magic as well as brute force. I estimate there were six but was in no condition to count. I passed out for the last time after being kicked in the face and awoke in the Forbidden Forest less than an hour ago. I had been beaten - _obviously_ \- and my wand was broken in two. This was in my pocket."

He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. She took it from his outstretched hand.

 _Your time is coming, traitor._

 _Consider this your only warning._

 _-Knights_

A cold washed over Hermione, reminding her unpleasantly of the time she'd fallen through cracked ice into a lake while skating as a young girl. She hadn't yet known she was a witch. She'd sunk, weighed down by her skates and her clothes, and could feel hypothermia kicking in. She closed her eyes and wished to be back up on the surface and, moments later, she was. Her parents swore instinct must have kicked in and she must have managed to swim, but she knew the truth – one second, she was sinking and dying, the next, she was on her back on the thickest part of the ice, in a place where she could be rescued, feeling a tingling warmth in her limbs.

She needed that warmth now, but no magic would stave off the chill of knowing the Knights were getting bolder, bloodier. It was only a matter of time before someone was killed.

While she refolded the note, he summoned over a vial of pain potion from the top drawer of his desk, downing it in two gulps. He pulled a face – it tasted vile – but he knew it was the one thing that would help him breathe without feeling as though tiny knives were stabbing at him from the inside out.

"Do you have a bruise salve for your ribs?" she asked. He nodded and gestured toward the cupboard from whence the Essence of Murtlap had flown. She retrieved it while he unbuttoned his coat and shirt, dropping them to the edge of the couch. He sat again and leaned to one side, allowing her ample access to the injured area, though he assured her he could easily apply the salve himself.

She said that was nonsense, insisting upon massaging the eucalyptus-infused cream into the pale skin over his ribs with skilled, gentle fingers. He moaned at her touch, not only from the pain, but because it had been too long since she last touched him. She knelt on the floor between his legs to do so and he couldn't help threading his fingers into her bushy brown hair as she healed him. He liked her in this position, to which the tenting of his trousers could attest.

"You've made my ribs feel better," he said as she closed the container of salve. "You might make the rest of me feel better."

"You want me to suck you off, here, now, while you're wounded?"

"I want you to say 'suck you off' again." He shifted his weight with a groan, ignoring the throbbing in his head and eye and side in favor of concentrating on alleviating the throbbing of his cock. "Tell me all the dirty things you'll do to me, Minister. Show me what your lips and tongue are capable of. Make me forget the indignities I suffered this evening at the hands of my unidentified assailants."

When they'd first started this affair nearly four years ago, he'd expressed mock surprise to learn that her sexual proclivities were woefully vanilla and that her experience was limited – she'd had one partner and few positions and the mere suggestion of experimentation was enough to make her blush from cheeks to chest.

She'd come a long way since then.

She'd come in a lot of ways since then.

But despite having spent her morning with a fluttering heart and a butterfly-filled belly, misusing the detachable shower head while fantasizing about their upcoming evening together, she was now in no mood to indulge his dark, deviant, sexual side, never mind her own.

"Have you eaten? How long did you say you were unconscious? That pain potion shouldn't be taken on an empty stomach."

"Leave me alone! If you're not going to give what I need, get out!" he snapped, absolutely hating to be fussed over, though the truth was he hadn't eaten and she was right about the potion. "For what it's worth, you make a better lover than you do a mother."

He realized his word choice made have been excessively cruel when her rose colored lips parted with a gasp and the cinnamon brown eyes staring up at him filled with tears. He felt the familiar well of guilt rearing up inside him like bile and immediately sought to apologize, but the words "I'm sorry" wouldn't come.

"Minister, please understand, I–"

"Glad to know I'm not as dreadful as a mistress as I am as a mum."

"That is _not_ what I meant."

"You meant that I'm only good for sex, and if that's not what I'm offering you, you don't see any reason for me to stay?"

"That's..." He cleared his throat, momentarily averting his gaze from hers. "That's more in line with what I was saying."

She stood with a growl of obvious disgust and moved away from him, toward the windows overlooking the grounds. Furious splotches darted her flushed cheeks, her fists clenched and her chest heaved as she glared back at him. He couldn't help committing the image to memory... _Fuck_ , she looked good angry. There was a reason their first time together followed a fight.

"You don't care for me at all, do you, Headmaster?"

"Must we have this discussion now?"

"Why not now? Now is as good a time as any."

"Why not now?" he repeated, again struggling to control his temper. " _Not now_ because I return home in under a week to spend a miserable summer in the company of my wife. _Not now_ because I've already been attacked once this evening and I don't feel up to another round. _Not now_ because discussions about feelings rank right up with Yule Balls and Sirius Black on my personal list of least favorite things. _Not now_ because I bloody said not now."

"Not now," she echoed, shaking her head. She retrieved her shirt, pulling it on so furiously one button actually popped off. "Not now, not _ever."_

"Minister..." His tone and expression softened. She was only trying to help him, to heal him, and didn't deserve his resentment for it. He was being a bastard and he wanted to make it up to her the only way he knew how. "Come to bed with me."

"You won't break bread with me but you'll take me to bed?" She stormed toward the door to his office, clearly intending to bid him adieu, oblivious to the fact that her blouse was buttoned incorrectly. He was about to call out to her – to call her by name – when she whipped back around.

"Am I nothing to you but a willing vagina, Headmaster?"

"No sex," he offered, hoping she'd understand this to mean she meant _much_ _more_ than that, though he wasn't sure he could ever say so. He tried to stand but the pain was not yet alleviated by the potion; he fell back to the couch with a wince. Still, he appealed to her. "Please, Minister. Sleep with me. Sleep beside me. No sex. I'll... hold you. I... I don't want you to go."

"You never hold me." She whispered these words, pain palpable in her voice, which cut into him more deeply than whatever had earlier been used against his head. "I've asked you."

"I will," he promised. This time, he was able to stand successfully, to walk toward her, albeit at a snail's pace. "I need something to hold onto."

"You're going to fall?" She rushed forward, sliding her arm under his and around his back, the way she'd helped him into the room. He allowed this assistance, but shook his head, hating himself for the vulnerable honesty about to spew from his lips. The pain must be making him delirious.

"I meant, I need a memory to hold onto over the summer. Something until I see you again in September."

"I don't understand you at all, Headmaster."

They turned, limping now toward the door leading to his bed chambers, her nonverbal agreement to stay.

"That's just it, Minister." He tightened his grip around her shoulders, perhaps relying on her support more than was actually necessary. "You've been telling me for years that you do not understand me, but you _do_ , don't you?"

She whispered her answer. "Better than anyone, I believe."

"And I you, perhaps better than you do yourself," he said. "We are broken people. And darkness is on the horizon. They wish to finish what the Dark Lord started."

"We won't let them." They'd reached his chambers. She guided him to the bed, depositing him there, and began undressing while he wandlessly sent small balls of fire to every sconce around the dark, drafty room. She knew where his sleep shirts were kept. She retrieved one for each of them, leaving her work attire neatly folded at the bottom of his wardrobe. She then used her wand the light a fire in the hearth before placing it inside his bedside table for safe-keeping.

"I am not strong enough to do this again," he confessed as he crawled under the covers. She slipped between the sheets beside him and, as promised, he held her, though gingerly on account of his ribs.

"You are. _We_ are. You won't be alone." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "This was just one attack–"

"It's always 'just one.' Until it's more. Until it's many. Too many."

"If you're in less pain in the morning, you can have me then," she offered, suddenly feeling wrong for denying him, though it was the right thing to do.

He closed his eyes, guided her head to his chest, and wandlessly extinguished the candles before responding.

"I have you now."

* * *

 **A/N:**

I did not invent the Knights of Walpurgis. That was said to be JKR's original name for the Death Eaters. I've just re-purposed it into a group rising up starting about a decade after Voldemort's second defeat.

Sorry, no real smut stuff in this chapter... but the next one is the most lemony thus far!

If you're interested, I recently completed Stages of Grief, a long NM/SS & HG/DM fic that takes place starting right after the war ends, plus started a short spin-off featuring Andromeda (Black) Tonks' dark journey through drug and alcohol rehab. All Roads Lead to Rome (HG/SS) is in the works still too.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! I love and appreciate your reactions and responses!

 **-AL**


	4. One Confession: December 2008

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER FOUR:**

 **ONE CONFESSION**

 **DECEMBER 2008**

He grabbed her hair, turning her head so her cheek was flush against the cool wood of the round table, and lowered his lips to her left ear.

"I'm going to fuck you harder and if it hurts, you'll tell me to stop."

"Very well," she said, as if he was making an innocuous business proposition rather than promising to pummel her sexually.

He was behind her, pushing his body against hers, crushing her lower belly against the edge of the table. The hand he had between her leg, the one he'd used to tear off her knickers, went to her inner thighs, shoving them further apart. He was already inside her, thrusting into her from behind while rubbing between her slick folds. Now he grabbed hold of her abdomen under her wool skirt and jerked her back so her arse was pushed out as if being presented to him, the way a baboon might in an attempted seduction. The mental image of the two of them as horny apes nearly made her giggle – she pictured him as a slick-haired Silverback gorilla and herself as a frazzled brown chimpanzee, two creatures that should not together mate – but the way he drew out and impaled her again forced the giggle out of her mouth in the form of an anguished moan.

He drove into her fast and hard and unrelenting, one hand returning to its spot between her legs, but now rather than gently exploring and caressing he was pinching and her clit, moistening his first and second digits, and then fucking her with his fingers and his cock at once, stretching and filling her, manipulating her body, nearly pulling away and then plunging back inside...

She let out another moan, this one deep and guttural, as his free hand worked its way between the table and her exposed breasts, grabbing one roughly. He bit down on the back of her shoulder, nearly bringing her to tears, but still she met him thrust for thrust, achingly partaking in this carnal act as if it were a well-deserved punishment. This was their second time together. The first had been unplanned, an accident, a mistake. A one-time thing they could both ignore and agree to forget about...

But this time?

He'd asked her to retire with him to his sitting room and she, knowing he had no intention of sharing tea and conversation, eagerly accepted the offer, thus making any unspoken agreement to pretend the first time hadn't happened void, and leading them to this point.

He drove both his fingers and cock deeper into her, penetrating her from two angles but meeting in the same place, as he sucked on the mark made from his teeth. She squeezed her eyes shut tight imagining the hard stomach and pecs of a man below her rather than the table, while simultaneously twerking her bum as if by doing so she could taken even more of him. This is what she imagined it would feel like to be with two men at the same time, not that she'd ever permitted herself indulgence in such a depraved fantasy. She could feel the threat of an eruption building inside her, starting from the pit of her belly and extending out, down sinewy legs and jelly-filled knees to her curled toes, up through her arms outstretched like a T to the fingers with which she clutched the sides of the round table, from the over-sensitive peaked bud of her nipple in his palm to the doughy flesh of her surrounding breast (which was bruising from the imprint of his fingers), from her fluttering heart and to deep within her pulsating quim... so many sensations, too many, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could take it.

He nosed aside her bushy hair to suck on the spot where the back of her neck curved to meet her shoulder. She could smell his minty clean shampoo as his own long hair created a curtain across their faces.

She was quivering and quaking and about to bloody _explode_ when he suddenly withdrew both his fingers and his cock leaving her feeling unfulfilled and unfinished. The disappointment was short-lived, however, as he turned her, lifted her, and sat her on the edge of the table, forcing apart her knees. He was inside her again almost immediately, holding her so their chests were flush together. He was gasping for air and groaning obscenities into her ear and the lone tone of his voice sent shock waves down her body. She'd never heard him speak like this before, never even imagined he would. It occurred to her she might be able to orgasm from that voice alone, a theory that would eventually be put to the test.

"How are you so fucking _tight_?" he asked. She couldn't help going pink-cheeked in response, not that it was any reason to be embarrassed. He shoved her away from him but kept a hand on her outer thigh, causing her to fall back against the table with a soft thud. He pulled her legs down – her backside was hanging half off the table now – and plunged into her again, this time more erratically, before grabbed the backs of her knees to bend them, putting her kneecaps up against his shoulders, giving him ample ability to watch her breasts bounce and her face flush and her eyes roll as he jack-hammered her into a veritable puddle of sweat and satisfaction and sin.

"I... my... I can't... please... I need... you... please..." She did not know what she was pleading for. Rougher? Gentler? Faster? Slower? All just words. In truth, she'd lost her ability to think clearly, to focus on the individual sensations, especially as he bent to take her nipple in his mouth, alternating sucking at her with flicking his tongue.

He played with her clit again as he brought her back to the brink of bliss; by now she was a trembling mess, dizzy and heady and delightfully empty from the neck up, as surely no more blood was flowing to her brain. She'd never before had such a clear mind – usually, even during sex, there was at least part of her head that was focused elsewhere, on work, on the children, on matters related to the house or paying bills or worrying about the state of her marriage – but in this moment she felt what only those who had truly mastered Occlumency must be able to manage... a complete disconnect from her inner voice, her over-thinking self, and all emotions. All she could concentrate on – all she could _register_ – was the incredible pulsating thrum caused by his stiff, throbbing cock pummeling unforgivingly into her sex. Her short fingernails dug painfully into the backs of his shoulders as she lifted her pelvis, writhing and bucking beneath him. Noises she'd never heard the likes of before released themselves from the depths of her throat of their own accord, spurring him on.

"Are you on the potion?" he asked. He had to ask twice more before she could process and answer the question, which she did with a shake of the head. He swore, took her other nipple into his mouth, and used the combination of his fingers against her clit and his cock buried inside her to bring her over the edge, earning from her a scream of pleasure followed by the sob of having been overwhelmed, before he pulled out and pumped his hand up and down his shaft for mere seconds before exploding himself, emptying his seed along her bare inner thigh. He half-collapsed on top of her then, leaning over the table on which she lay, his forehead to her breast. Both were breathing heavily, too heavily to even speak, though somehow she managed to continue to sob. Her hands covering her bright-red face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, once he managed to find both the words and the ability to utter them.

"No," she said, trying not to wail her next words. "I feel great."

"You're crying." He forced himself to stand, Scorgified the mess along her inner thigh and on his softening member, and fixed his trousers, but did not bother with finding his shirt. Then, for reasons he could not quite put into words, he tastefully rearranged her skirt, covering her private bits, before Accioing over a throw blanket to drape across her bare, bruised and heaving chest, thus affording her the dignity deserving of the Minister for Magic.

"I'm sorry for crying," she whispered. "I'm not hurt."

"Upset, then?"

Should he apologize? Did he have anything to apologize for? She'd consented at the start, encouraged him throughout, and clung to him in the end. Surely he had nothing to be sorry for? He clenched his teeth, feeling uncomfortable and perhaps the slightest bit guilty.

"Overwhelmed. _Good_ overwhelmed," she finally articulated, much to his relief. She managed to pull herself into a seated position. She spotted her blouse on the floor by the door but before she could rise to retrieve it, he grabbed it and handed it to her. She almost asked how he'd known she wanted it before remembering his Legilimency skills. Her upper body flushed crimson again as she wondered whether he'd double-penetrated her because it was something he enjoyed... or something he could sense that she'd fantasized about.

"I wasn't in your head during sex," he said, answering the question she hadn't asked. "It is generally too taxing for me to be inside my own _and_ someone else's during that particular activity."

She nodded, hurrying into her blouse, though she did not yet attempt to climb down from the table, not until the last of her buttons was done up. He had found his own shirt during that time and was now using his wand to repair the four buttons she'd popped off when tearing him from the confines of it.

"I've never done that before," she said, her voice still somewhat breathy, though she'd regained use of her weakened limbs.

He set down his wand, looking puzzled. "Done what?"

"Been... been _fucked_ like that." The word felt dirty in her mouth, as dirty as her body felt from having been deliciously defiled by him over this last hour. She rarely used such language in her general life, but given the circumstances, the term seemed most appropriate.

"Never?" He couldn't hold back a self-satisfied chuckle, impressed with himself for having so thoroughly exceeded expectations. "But you're married."

"My husband doesn't touch me like that." She closed her eyes as a confession tumbled from her mouth. "My husband doesn't touch me much at all."

"We have something in common, then, he and I."

"What could you possibly have in common?" She didn't add, ' _You_ touched me plenty!' but she could tell by his smirk that he knew she'd thought it.

"If I may be so bold, it appears Weasley has limited physical interest in his wife, whereas I have absolutely none in mine."

"Why are you married, then?" Hermione moved farther away from the table, straightened her skirt, and scanned the floor for her knickers, which were surely torn. "Why do men marry women they do not want?"

"There was a time I wanted her. That time has passed."

It did indeed sound like the Headmaster and her husband had something in common, then.

"Why?" she asked, her brow furrowed, her quest to find her discarded last item of clothing forgotten. "What makes it pass?"

"You are asking because you want to know what caused your husband to lose interest in you, but I assure you, Minister, beyond the similarity I have already highlighted our situations are too vastly different to compare. You and Weasley married for love, did you not?"

"Yes. Didn't you?"

"Hestia was..." He scowled, went to the cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Best Firewhisky, twisting off the cap and taking a swig. He held the bottle out to her. She shook her head. She rarely drank and when she did, spirits were hardly her first choice. "I had a number of physical relationships during and between both wars, but I had never... I had never done what you might call _dating_. Hestia was the first. I enjoyed my time with her. I began to relax, to relate to her as I hadn't with other women, not since..."

He did not finish the sentence, but Hermione knew he meant 'Not since Lily.' She watched him stalk over to a cabinet where he found two glasses, poured a double in each, and downed a long gulp before holding one glass out to her. She took it and sniffed– it smelled like hot cinnamon – but did not sip.

"I was up front with her. I made it clear I had no desire to produce children – I already had Delphini, one more than I'd asked for – and I could not foresee myself marrying, not ever. She said she understood."

Hermione settled herself on the couch, tucking her skirt around her lower body with her feet under her bum, regarding him carefully... and glad it didn't seem he was going to throw her out immediately after coitus, as he had the last time (which was also the first time).

"What changed?"

His expression darkened, bringing to mind the loathsome bullying potions professor who's once called her an insufferable know-it-all. He paused so long Hermione didn't think he would answer, but finally, he said, "She claimed the potion failed."

"Contraceptive potion?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"She said it failed, she was with child, and it was mine. When she refused to... to terminate it... I did the right thing. Or what I am told is the right thing. I married her. It was the same reason my father married my mother, though I have done my best not to spend these last few years punishing her and the child for the loss of my freedom as my father did to my mother and me."

"But you only married her because she was pregnant?" That sounded simply awful to Hermione. She'd made it clear to Ron from the very start of their sexual relationship that any unintended pregnancy was to result only in a child, not in a marriage. Marriage would wait until they wanted to be married for reasons unrelated to the child later. Her own father had married his first wife because she was pregnant and it had been a disaster for all involved. Hermione wanted no such future.

"What else was I to have done?" Severus demanded with a sneer. "Abandon her to raise my second bastard child? To do so without any assistance? Or to offer payment, as if Hestia were a prostitute and our child an unfortunate reminder of the dangers of the profession? No. As I said, I married her because it was the right thing to do. I believed, given time, I could learn to love her the way I should."

Hermione considered asking him if he did indeed learn to love his wife, but he had already moved on.

"Hestia knew, though. She knew I would. Marry her, I mean. If she became pregnant. I'm certain she knew. She knew how I felt about Delphini, the guilt, the self-loathing, the way I can never forgive myself for..." He silenced this confession about his older daughter by chugging down the rest of what was in the glass. He glared at the darkened windowpane as if he could see his wife in the reflection.

"You can tell me," Hermione said quietly. She fiddled with the hem of her wool skirt and waited for him to speak again.

"I told Hestia early in our _courtship_ that I was a terrible father." He said the word _courtship_ as if it were _cock_ or _cunt_ , something not quite suitable for civilized conversation. "I was unable to relate to Delphini, unable to connect with her. I told Hestia of my own abusive childhood, I told her it left me too broken to know how to parent properly. I told her I had no interest in bringing another baby into a cruel, cold world, knowing full well I wouldn't be able to shield that child from the darkness... Knowing I'd be no kind of father..." He lobbed his empty glass furiously into the fireplace, where it shattered. The residual alcohol made the flames flare up and Hermione flinched in response.

"First the Dark Lord was my master, then Dumbledore, and now, _her_. Just as both men were able to manipulate me – the former using my poor self-esteem and desire for greatness and the latter using my remorse and sense of responsibility regarding the murder of my only childhood friend – she does. She makes me feel guilty for my inability to show our daughter proper affection, she has me over a barrel until the girl turns eighteen. I serve a new master now and what infuriates me is that I can't hate her as I did the Dark Lord, or even as I sometimes did Dumbledore, because we created Iris together, and to hate Hestia would be to hate half of my own daughter. The girl deserves better, even if better is not something I can provide."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue – surely he could be better, surely he could try, he could _learn_ to connect with his daughters, he could be a better father than his own was – but again he continued before she could speak. This time, the anger in his voice was palpable, his usual stoicism gone.

"Hestia knew – she fucking _knew_ before she did it! She _knew_ how I felt about Delphini, that I certainly could do no better with another. But she got herself pregnant anyway. Selfishly. And who pays the price?"

"You?" guessed Hermione, running her index finger over the rim of her whiskey glass. He shook his head furiously, though she thought she could see sadness in his expression too.

"The child!" He picked up a throw pillow from the edge of the couch and threw it back down. It bounced back up, nearly knocking Hermione's drink from her hand. He didn't seem to notice. "Iris Autumn – that's her name. The innocent product of an irreparably damaged home." He scowled. "She looks like me, the poor mite. She looks like I did as a child - except that she smiles."

"But sir!" Forgetting for a moment that she was no longer his student and therefore did not have to address him as 'sir,' Hermione set the Firewhisky down on the end table and rose to face him, taking hold of his upper arms and waiting for eye contact. "You _cannot_ blame Hestia for a failed contraceptive potion. Those potions are complicated and notoriously unreliable. The apothecary and St. Mungo's alike offer a warning when–"

He wrenched away from her, his disgust palpable. "The contraceptive potion she was taking was not from the apothecary or St. Mungo's. The one she has taken is unpatented, but _never_ before had it _failed."_

"You brewed it yourself," Hermione guessed softly, understanding. She plopped back down on the sofa. "So either she purposely got pregnant, or..."

"Or I made a mistake." He lifted her glass from the end table and sipped, his eyes closed, willing himself to calm before putting the drink down again. "It was either entirely her fault or entirely my own, and I'll never know which, because she is as good an Occlumens as I am a Legilimens. I know from prior experience it is of no difficulty for her to lie to me – and honestly, I don't know which is worse, to think that she forced that child on me, or that I forced the child on both of us."

It was pain, Hermione realized, that was the source of his anger. His bitterness. He'd spent his entirely life being more or less owned by others and his wife was no different. He had been right – this was not the situation in which she and Ronald found themselves, though it was no less depressing.

"How old is your daughter now? Iris?"

"She turned three in August. She calls me 'Daddy,' unlike her sister. Delphini is more comfortable with either 'Snape' or 'Father' and, occasionally, 'Professor,' generally accompanied by an air of indifference. Personality-wise, I see more of myself in Delphini, whereas Iris is an overly affection child. She tells people she loves them even when that love is undeserved. She tells me she loves me. Often. She shouldn't. I say it to her because it's true, and she is deserving of it, but for her to look to me and say-"

"You genuinely don't think you deserve to be loved by your own child?" Hermione couldn't remain on the sofa at this, staring up at his back as he faced the window. She moved to him instead, wrapping her arms around him from behind. How could this man have so much self-loathing that he couldn't even fathom why his own daughter would deem him worthy of love?

His body tensed. As comfortable as he was with himself and physical contact when it came to sex, he was equally uncomfortable when it came to contact meant to comfort.

"Headmaster? I don't believe you're as incapable of affection as you seem to think you are."

He shook his head but did not move from her hold. "The best I can be is a better father than my own father was, but that is hardly setting a high bar."

She pressed her lips to the back of his shoulder, feeling his deep inhale as she did so. She backed away then, suspecting he needed space. She retrieved her whiskey and moved back to the table against which he'd held her down. She jumped up, perching herself on the edge. It was time for a confession of her own.

"People think Ronald is a _wonderful_ father, but the truth is, he mostly likes to show off our children. He likes for people – women, really – to see him playing with them or carrying them on his shoulders or making them laugh so they'll say, 'What a _wonderful_ father! I wish my husband could be more like _you_!' Then they turn and tell me how _lucky_ I am that I'm _allowed_ to have a career because I have _such_ a supportive husband to _help out_ with the children." The sneer on her face rivaled the one Severus had just worn. "Headmaster, you wouldn't _imagine_ how many dates he's gotten simply by looking like a decent father in public."

"Dates?" Severus turned around to face her, a quizzical expression on his pale face.

Hermione shrugged and reached for the whiskey glass he'd poured for her. She took a long sip, which burned going down, and held it out to him with a coral lipstick print where her mouth had been. He strode to her, taking it, letting their fingers brush as he did so. It gave her a pleasant chill thanks to the muscle memory of what he'd been doing to her with those fingers just a short time earlier. He sipped the Firewhisky, regarding her carefully, as he moved closer and closer until her thighs were on either side of his hips, the same positioned they'd been in already. "Your husband dates often, does he?"

"I told you he doesn't touch me."

Severus threaded the fingers of his free hand under her hair, turning her face sharply toward hers. He leaned down and for a moment she thought he might kiss her, but his lips made contact with the love-bite he'd left on the side of her neck instead, causing her to arch her back, wanting to be held by him.

"As you've no doubt discerned," he spoke softly against her skin. "I am more than happy to touch you, Minister, assuming I have permission to do so."

"I believe I'd made it abundantly clear that I welcome your touch, Headmaster," she said boldly, wondering if being this close meant he would sense her quickened pulse, the dramatic thumping of her heart inside her chest, and the return of her inability to properly breathe.

"You'll not tell anyone what I've confessed to you regarding the way I feel about my wife and children?" He nipped at her neck before tracing his mark with the tip of his tongue. His hands went to her arse, pulling her to the edge of the table.

"Of course not." She slipped her arms around his waist, her hands coming to rest on his lower back. "And you won't reveal what I confided to you about my husband and his... extracurricular activities?"

"What sort of man would I be if I shared your intimate secrets with the world, witch?"

"Not the sort to whom I'd grant permission to touch me."

Though she wouldn't have thought it possible for her abused sex to last another round, she welcomed having him inside her again. This time he undressed her completely and carried her to the sofa where he was gentler, slower, almost tender... though he still turned his face away when she attempted to capture his lips in a kiss.

When they were through, she finally found her knickers, fixed her rumpled shirt, skirt, and frazzled hair, and hurried out of the castle, already late for dinner with her family.

It was odd – though she ought to feel like a slag for having let him shag her not once, not twice, but three times since their first professional meeting only months ago, what gave her the knotted feeling in the pit of her stomach was actually the confession she'd made – in all the years that her husband had been cheating, she'd never once said a thing about it, not to anybody, not to Harry or to Luna, not even to Ron himself. It was as if she could believe it wasn't happening if she refused to recognize it, but now she had not acknowledged it, she'd shared that personal information with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, of all people. And what was to stop him from sharing what he now knew, putting her and her position as Minister at risk? She could not handle a scandal, not when she'd only taken office in August and had both a reputation to protect and an image to maintain.

But despite the fact that she barely knew him – not as a person, not on an intimate level, not as anything more than her former potions professor turned Headmaster and as a spy for the Order – she felt strangely comfortable having confided in him.

 _After all,_ she told herself, _it isn't as if you said much. You didn't give details. And why would he tell anyone?_ It wasn't as if she told him everything, everything she sought to keep hidden from the greater wizarding world, everything she would die to keep secret. It was just one little thing. Just one confession.

That's all.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you all for the Follows and Faves, and thanks to the reviewers I've had thus far: smithback, PadmeG, FrancineHibiscus, houstonclay, Francis-rose, clarasnotlikely, evil-sensei iruka, Zedoc, CinderSpire793, PopularCats, TheLadyBookworm, Sundaegirl99, sassanech, Poledne, kleipoppetje, Mel, bulletgirlmiami89, Superfan, traveltotheend, Vani12, Lilikaco, and Guest. I know this is kind of an odd fic both in terms of content and structure so I hugely appreciate your feedback and patience! (PS: thanks houstonclay for the C3 edit! I fixed it)

To answer clarasnotlikely's Q about how long this fic will be... I'm not sure. I have mapped out 30 possible chapters but don't intend to use them all. I've already written the last one so I know where this ends up and structured a timeline for plot purposes, but since I can create more/different chapters out of various times they were together between 2008-2013 as long as none predate the first time (a future chapter) and the last time (the end) I can have a lot of freedom with it. Basically, it'll depend upon how interested people are in reading more. I definitely won't leave it unfinished if there's not much interest, but I won't create extra content if it seems readers are really just hoping to jump to the end instead (I don't want to accidentally create one of those fics that goes on for 30,000 words longer than it should have!). So I'm thinking between 15-25 probably, given what I've already mapped out.

Thanks!

 **-AL**


	5. One Release: September 2009

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER FIVE:**

 **ONE RELEASE**

 **SEPTEMBER 2009**

He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and concentrated on the sensations she was providing. Her lips and tongue moved over his head, down his shaft, and farther...

"Suck me there," he requested – no, _demanded_ – when her lips brushed his bollocks in an exploratory kiss. "Do it."

She almost argued. She wasn't used to being bossed around and didn't generally enjoy being told what to do, but the barely-present anguished quality of his voice intrigued her. Yes, he was barking orders, but she was the one with the power, the control. She could oblige him, give in, give him what he desperately needed, or she could choose not to. She could flick her tongue against the head of his cock, lapping up the pre-cum forming at the tip, or draw his entire length into her mouth and suck – he liked it hard – or she could kiss his thigh, stand up, and tell him she was done and ready to have the favor returned. As she pondered her options, she moved her hand up and down his erection, twisting slightly at the end, knowing he didn't mind a little roughness even though this was only the sixth time they'd been together and the second time she'd attempted to pleasure him in this way. She hadn't been very good the first time, this she knew even though he didn't say so, thus now she was determined to do for him what he clearly desired.

"Please," he said, as the demand became a plea. "Please, Minister, please..."

Feeling more empowered than ordered around, she took the base of his cock firmly in her hand and spoke with her lips so close to his skin she could feel her own hot breath bouncing off him and returning to her.

"What is it you want from me, exactly?"

He groaned in response, tugging on her wild hair. He was standing, leaning against the round table in his sitting room, with his trousers unfastened but not removed and his frock coat buttoned up as high as ever. She had removed her witch's robe upon entry but was otherwise fully clothed, kneeling on the floor before him. This was far from her favorite position. Her knees were already sore and it wasn't comfortable to keep her spine straight enough to put her at proper level with his groin, but he'd lamented about his difficult day and she had – in a rather forward way that felt more like something bold Ginny would do – offered to make it better.

He'd responded, "Shall we move to the sitting room?"

And she promptly found herself in this position.

"Let me fuck your mouth," he said, guiding her face closer to his cock. "Please."

"I'll let you... when I'm ready." She kissed him there then licked her lips and glanced up to find he was no longer staring up at the ceiling but down at her.

"You are killing me."

"Don't worry. I'll put you out of your misery in due time." Now she wrapped her lips around the tip, swirling her tongue over it, slowly moving her mouth farther down his shaft until she had all of him – or as close to all of him as she could manage. She sucked and moved her tongue and bobbed her head bringing him as far in as possible and then nearly all the way out. She let his cock brush against the insides of her cheeks and laved him with her tongue and hoped the guttural sounds emitted from his throat meant she was better at this than her rarely-satisfied husband said she was. One hand remained on his cock, keeping it where she wanted it, but with the other she grabbed his arse, hard. She suddenly wanted him naked. She wanted them both naked. She wanted to be under him or on top of him, she wanted him inside her.

She wanted him to _want_ to be inside her.

She reached up, grabbed the waistband of his trousers with both hands at his sides and pulled them down to the floor, exposing his lower body to her. His legs were as pale as the rest of him, covered in fine, soft dark hair, though not too much. He was groomed where it mattered, which had surprised her the first time considering it seemed he rarely trimmed the hair on his head, which was now long enough to brush his shoulders.

She ran her hands up his legs to his hips and down again to mid-thigh before taking his length in her right hand, letting the left rest against the back of his leg, using him for leverage as she sucked him into her mouth.

He tightened his grip in her hair, thrusting forward, unable to stop himself.

She sped up, using her hand and her mouth, letting her other hand carefully cup his balls, which earned from him another deep groan. _Curious_ , she thought. She'd never paid much attention to this particular part of a man's anatomy before. It had never been requested of her, but he seemed to enjoy it. With this in mind, she drew a line with the tip of her tongue from his head up his shaft and between his bollocks, pausing to gauge his reaction. He moaned, encouraging her to do it again. This time she ran the flat part of her tongue against one, but drew back almost immediately, uncertain.

"Keep on that."

"Won't I hurt you?"

He cocked an eyebrow, regarding her carefully. "Are you going to bite them?"

"Of course not!" Her posture slackened; she sat on her heels, staring up at him with concern. He didn't _want_ her to bite them, did he? Was that something men liked? It occurred to her there were probably books in the Muggle library that explained exactly how to do this. Perhaps she should check one out. "I mean, I won't unless you... want me to?"

"Lick," he said. "Suck. Touch. Be gentle. Don't _bite_."

His voice was so... emotionless... and yet his cool, almost sensual tone reminded her of time spent in the classroom. The words 'softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes... bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...' spoken on Day One popped into her head and she very nearly giggled at the absurdity of having found herself in this situation eighteen years later, but thankfully she managed to choke back the laughter, refocusing instead on the challenge at hand.

Literally at hand, as she was still cupping his dangly bits.

She gently sucked one between her lips, into her mouth, using her tongue over it. Judging by his reaction, he seemed to like this.

"Don't stop," he said, placing his free hand over her other one, which was still holding him. He moved it up and down with increasing speed. She could feel the throb of his cock under her hand as they pumped it together. She kissed his thigh and nipped him there before flicking out her tongue along his length. With each of their times together, she was learning more about what he liked, what he needed, and she'd discovered his desire for an intriguing mix of pleasure and pain, thus she bit him again on the thigh as she ran her tongue-moistened thumb gently over his tender bell-end.

" _Minister_..." he moaned pleadingly, his hand leaving hers to clutch the edge of the table behind him. With the other hand he yanked back hard on her hair, repositioning her to take him in her mouth again. She closed her eyes and let him fuck her this way, liking the uncontrolled way he bucked his hips and the way he grunted and gasped as she alternatively yanked and twisted, licked and kissed him. She felt a pressure building in her own lower abdomen as his breathing changed, becoming increasingly ragged, with words like "fuck" and "yes" juxtaposed with growls and groans. Though she continued to pleasure him with one hand, the other moved from his bollocks to between her own legs. She rubbed herself through her jeans, glancing up to see if he was watching. Indeed, he was. They made eye contact and the intensity of it was almost enough to freeze her like the victim of a Basilisk, but somehow she managed to continue, thrusting against her own hand as he thrust into her mouth.

"Fuck, yes," he said. His head tipped back again, his eyes closed, and he said it again. "Fuck. Yes."

He gave no warning before he came, though he held her head still as he did so, spilling himself into her mouth. She swallowed and sucked and squeezed and didn't stop until he was spent, for which she gave herself an imaginary back-pat. She almost wished her husband could see her in this moment, to turn to him and say something along the lines of, "Maybe _you_ are the problem." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, reaching for her wand to do a mouth cleaning spell before remembering she'd left it in her robe. She rested her forehead against his bare thigh and concentrated on her breathing. Nothing calms a person like concentrating on taking slow, deliberate breaths.

Once his trousers were up and fastened, Severus guided her up from the floor. To her (happy) surprise, he drew her close, his hands slipping into the back pockets of her Muggle jeans. She'd dressed casually under her witch's robe today, since it was floor-length and she hadn't had time to do laundry in weeks. Ron had barely been home since meeting his latest side-piece over the summer, Rose had been sick with Dragon Pox, and Hugo... Hugo was a handful as of late. Severus had made no mention of this most unusual workday attire.

She buried her face in his frock coat, her nose to his chest, breathing in the scent of ash and cotton and cinnamon, though not the cinnamon of Firewhisky. She kissed the center of his chest knowing he wouldn't feel it through the fabric of his clothes, and sighed contentedly when he removed his hands from her pockets to wrap his arms around her in a hug.

"I should not have forced you out in June," he said into her bushy brown hair. "I should have had you spend the night."

"No, you were right to suggest I leave." She had been hurt at the time, but forced herself to get over it; she wasn't exactly a stranger to rejection. "It's better if I don't spend the night. I have a husband. I have children. I need to sleep at home, in my own bed."

"My bed is too large for one person," he replied. "It's better with you in it. When I awoke without you the next morning, I was disappointed, aggravated with myself for my lack of foresight. I could have taken you again at sunrise before you had to return home."

They'd been sleeping together exactly one year, since September 2008, and this was only their sixth encounter (though sometimes they had sex more than once before parting ways).

With the exception of the second time, last Christmas, they'd largely avoided intimate conversation, and their one night spent in bed hadn't been quite what she had been fantasizing about – she wanted to be held, to fall asleep with his arms around her, to wake up still in his embrace. Instead, they did not touch. They lay on their backs, side by side, with enough space between them to build a thin wall using the wooden blocks her son loved so much, until sunrise when he reached for her and fucked her before heading to the bathroom for his morning shower with a casual goodbye, so to hear him say he regretted not having had her stay when they were together in June came as a confusing surprise.

She hoped it meant he would want her to stay tonight.

She knew better than to hope he'd hold her, though.

Her husband used to. Even after she knew he was cheating, even after he stopped initiating sex, he would still curl up behind her, the big spoon to her little, and rest his hands on her abdomen and fall asleep that way.

Until, eventually, even that fell by the wayside.

That was when she knew his fling had gone from one that was merely physical to having some emotional component too.

Now her husband wouldn't hold her or kiss her and her lover wouldn't hold her or kiss her. The two things she felt she needed most she couldn't get it from either of the only two men with whom she'd ever shared a bed.

As much as it hurt, she understood.

There was something far more intimate about kissing and cuddling and falling asleep intertwined than there was in simply fucking a person for physical satiation, using that person as if she or he were a toy. A person can fuck anyone, really, if they want to – or any _thing_ , if the seedy adult toy shop she'd recently found herself wandering around was to be believed – but to kiss or cuddle was quite another thing.

Understanding it didn't make it hurt less.

"Why are you interested in me?" Hermione whispered against Severus' chest. "You never liked me. You once called me insufferable. An insufferable know-it-all, remember?"

"You were but a child at the time," he replied, his voice without inflection. "And I'd rather not remember that I knew you then."

"My husband calls me insufferable. It's become one of his favorite words. Insufferable, dull, exhausting, stubborn, a minger, a swot, a twat, a cunt, a bitch..."

"You permit him to insult you like that?" Severus took hold of her upper arms and drew her back, regarding her with a mix of anger and revulsion that took her aback.

"You don't say cruel things to your wife in anger?"

He shook his head vehemently. His eyebrows were drawn together and the slightest bit of color was working its way into his pale face. "I confess I am not _in love_ with my wife as a decent husband ought to be, but I _respect_ her. I'd never..." He cleared his throat and shook his head again, as if in a state of disbelief over the way her husband addressed her. "I harbor resentment for her as I suspect our mutual foray into parenthood was her doing, but to degrade her, to call her a _bitch_ or a _cunt_..." He spat the words out as if they tasted bitter. "Or a _twat_ or– "

"He doesn't degrade me!" she interjected insistently, attempting to pull away but unable to on account of his firm grip on her upper arms. "Sometimes, when we're having a row, he–"

"He tells you you're insufferable and dull, unattractive, and a swot? Your bookishness and stubbornness aside, what could possibly warrant such disrespect? Surely he appreciates your brilliance – I doubt he could have managed enough of his homework to pass a bloody class without your help – which makes it especially affronting that he would demean you for your intelligence or –"

"In his defense, I _am_ bookish, yes, and I... I'm stubborn, I know... and probably, at times, insufferable, and even the Prophet thinks I'm dull and unattractive..."

"Fuck the Prophet. You are neither. You are neither dull nor unattractive, and you are most certainly not a cunt, nor a bitch. The Prophet prints rubbish on the regular; it's a better material for wrapping fish than it is a news source. And your undeserving husband ought not to insult you, no matter the state of your relationship–"

"He... he... I... he..." she sputtered, interrupting him as tears welled up in her eyes, much to her fury (and embarrassment). Not only did it hurt to think about all the times Ron had lobbed insults her way to cut her down during a fight, it threw her through a loop to have Severus so vehemently insist she had been improperly labeled. "Ron and I used to be friends, and..."

"And when you were friends, you didn't mind being called insufferable or dull?"

" _You_ once called me insufferable, remember? That's what got us on this sub–"

"I was not _married_ to you!" He squeezed her shoulders before rubbing his hands up and down her upper arms, the closest to comfort he could provide. "And, for what it's worth, I regret having said it. You were a child, I was an adult, and you did not deserve–"

"Don't!"

"Don't what?"

She shoved him back against the table and stalked halfway to the door that led to his office, almost as if she might leave, but they both knew she wouldn't. "Don't you start apologizing for what you said then. Don't tell me you didn't mean it or that you shouldn't have said it or that you didn't know... didn't know where we'd end up. And don't... don't make my husband out to be a monster because he... because he... I _love_ him, and... and he... and he... he loves... he loves... he _must_ still love... _me_."

Hermione covered her face with her hands, ashamed to let him see her crying and carrying on like this, but she couldn't stop the tears. As Minister for Magic at the Ministry and as Mum at home, she was always calm, always in control, no matter how much she wanted to break down or lash out. She no longer had the luxury of behaving as she had back at Hogwarts, when being angry at Ron meant she could send angry birds pecking at his head, when she could yell or cry or get emotional... People did not like to see their leaders getting overly emotional, especially female leaders. There already existed a misconception that women were too emotional to lead, though it was not quite as prevalent in the magical world as the Muggle one, and she was determined not to promote a stereotype. When Ron would become angry, when they'd fight, she would infuriate him further by her ability to remain stoic and impassive, which led to him slinging insults in her direction just to get a visible reaction. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes he didn't.

Usually, she bottled up her emotions and let them out later, in the shower, where the water washed away her tears as if they'd never been shed.

The anger had drained from Severus' face and with it, the color. He was pale again, and as stoic as she tried to be. But silently, he moved to her, lowered her hands, and cupped her face with such tenderness it almost pained her more. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead, and he murmured, "I know. I know how it is to have to hide. I know how it is to keep pain in a bottle. I know what it is to cry in a shower." This confession was so raw neither knew how to react to the fact that he'd said it. After a few moments of silence, she said, "You were reading my thoughts."

It was not a question, but he nodded confirmation all the same.

"Occlumency was my savior during both wars. With it, I could clear my mind, close off my heart, and empty myself of all emotions. It was necessary for survival, and suppressing strong feelings – whatever they may be – has become my default, but that should not be true for you. It is no way to live."

"The people trust me to lead. They trust me to remain calm in a crisis, to be in control, to be clear-headed."

"Divorce him." He kissed her forehead before bringing his hands down from her cheeks to her waist, drawing her close until their lower bodies were pressed against each other, but she leaned back, gazing up at him.

"I can't! I've only been in office a year. How can they trust me to know how to run the Ministry of Magic when I cannot run my own home? How can they trust me to keep them safe and happy if I cannot even satisfy my own husband? How can they trust me to be the leader of our world when I've completely lost control of my children?"

"Your children?" He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. This tiny gesture almost made her lose it again, but this time she kept the tears at bay.

"My son speaks to me as his father does. He'll be five years old in a few weeks. Yesterday I told him to pick up his toys and he said, 'Mummy, don't _nag_ me.' I said, 'Hugo, you pick up these toys this second!' and he said, 'I'll pick them up when I _feel_ like it!' Then, under his breath, he called me a bitch." She sniffled, the guilt evident all over her face. "Then I slapped him because I'm a terrible mother. I'd never slapped him before. I've never slapped Rose. I always teach them that hitting is not appropriate, that violence is _never_ the answer, and yet I slapped him."

"I said a polite hello to my eleven-year-old daughter in the hall outside her first Transfiguration lesson this morning and she replied, 'Sod off, Professor.' I had to deduct House Points from my own bloody Slytherin child on only the second day of term. Children are little shits. Prats. Dunderheads, the lot of them." Though he was, essentially, insulting his own children in this, he said it with a twinge of affection that almost made her smile, until he added, "That's not your fault."

"Children only act that way if they're raised to. If I were a better mother, my son would know better than to speak to me that way, but because his father does it..."

"I doubt you're a terrible mother." The hands on her waist slid around to her bum. She relaxed in his embrace, her cheek to his chest. She wondered if he could sense how affection-starved she was, whether he knew that she'd do just about anything to be snuggled and stroked like a kitten, whether he realized that while she had confidence in her ability to do her job, her self-esteem was crumbling in other areas, the combined effect of having been written off as unlovable by most of the wizarding world, including her own husband, and the generally held belief that pretty girls and smart girls were not the same girls, a stereotype she'd been aware of since age seven.

"I don't understand how this happened. Ron and I were friends. Best friends. I loved him then, when we were children. I loved him as a friend long before I loved him romantically. He's the only boy – the only man – I've ever loved romantically. The only one I'd ever been with. And I still love him. And he says he loves me..." She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as a stray tear eked out from the corner. "He says it _sometimes_ , anyway. Which is why I don't understand... I don't understand..." Her voice trailed off. She shouldn't be talking about this. Not with the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Not with anyone.

"He may love you, but he doesn't respect you."

"I know."

"Does he hit you?"

"Never."

"Come to bed with me."

"What?" She drew back, confusion lined across her face. How had he jumped from their second-ever truly personal conversation back to sex?

"Come to my bed. Spend the night."

"But last time, last time I spent the night, you said it was a mistake, you said never again..."

"He doesn't satisfy you. He doesn't deserve you." He brought one hand up to the back of her neck, under her hair, and scratched his short nails against her skin. "Let me have you. Let me–"

"I don't want you to have sex with me out of pity. That's worse than apologizing for the way you treated me when I was a student."

"It is not out of pity. It's out of selfishness. I am a selfish man. You want our world to think you're in charge, calm, collected and clearheaded at all times, yes?"

"Yes."

"But I, quite selfishly, enjoy seeing you when you are _not_ in charge, when you're unable to remain calm or collected, when your head is not as much clear as it is unable to focus on any tangible thoughts because of my actions. A short time ago, I had you in a position of submission, but ultimately _you_ remained in power, and I enjoyed it. Thoroughly."

Her cheeks went pink. He certainly _had_ enjoyed it. And she'd enjoyed knowing she was the reason he was experiencing such enjoyment.

"Give yourself to me. Just tonight – just one night. Release your inhibitions, relinquish your command, and let me give you what you need."

It was a tempting offer, though she doubted he knew what she _truly_ needed.

"Do you trust me?"

Did she?

"Yes," she decided. "Yes, I trust you."

"Close your eyes."

She did, though for some reason she held her breath while doing so. When she opened her eyes again, there was only darkness. She reached up to touch the cloth denying her the ability to see, but he caught her wrists, brought them behind her back, and tied them with something as silky as that which covered her eyes.

"Scarves," he said, answering her unasked question. "Not tightly tied." He wrapped an arm around her waist and she felt the familiar squeeze and crack of apparition.

"You can apparate within Hogwarts?" she asked incredulously, mentally picturing the page in Hogwarts, A History in which she'd read that such a thing was impossible.

"I am the Headmaster. It's one of the perks."

"Where are we?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No one's going to see me naked, are they?"

"Would you like an audience? If so, I could apparate us to the Great Hall and have Flitwick summon the rest of the staff to–"

"No, thank you!"

"You have fantasized about an audience, though, haven't you, Minister? Just as you've fantasized about submission, about being subdued. About being used. Being properly degraded. Not in the way your husband does, not with childish insults or untruths meant to hurt you, but with–"

"What... what do you mean?" she interrupted. "I don't know what you're referring to!" She was glad he couldn't see her eyes. She was certain they'd tell him everything. She could hear the faint chuckle in his voice when he replied.

"Sometimes, when we are... _intimate_... I get a sense of what you're thinking, what you're feeling. What you're envisioning. I use Legilimency on you on occasion because I like to know."

"I thought you said you stay out of my head when we're having sex?"

"I do." He lowered her back gently until she was flat on her back against a mattress. Presumably, in his bed. "But during foreplay is another matter."

She felt her entire upper body flushing bright crimson and was again glad she was blindfolded, because she was now too embarrassed to look upon him. How much had he seen? How much did he know? Some of her fantasies were downright depraved – what he must think of her, if he'd seen her darkest... oh, fuck! She had entertained such terrible dirty thoughts at times while he was working his tongue between her legs, while he was fingering her pussy roughly while standing behind her, while he was kneading and sucking at her breasts... And to think he might _know_!

As she inwardly panicked, he was working down the buttons on her blouse. She tried to concentrate on the way that felt, on picturing each tiny button popping free of its hole, rather than risk giving him even more personal information by playing it over in her head right now.

"You frequently wear these blouses with many buttons." He kissed down her skin as he unfastened each one. "I like the way they prolong the undressing process, giving me ample time to enjoy each newly exposed bit of flesh." He reached the center of her chest and buried his nose between her breasts with a low groan before continuing.

"I'm not surprised. You wear an intolerable amount of buttons yourself." She breathed slowly in and out, willing herself to keep calm and controlled, but at the same time she wished she could entangle her hands in his hair, scratch at his back, tear off his coat.

"You are beautiful," he said, his voice so low it sent a tingle down her spine and made her toes curl. She kicked off her heels one at a time, hearing them clunk to the floor. He lifted the cup of her bra to kiss the underside of one of her breasts. "Your body is perfection."

"It hurts my arms, positioned like this." She wriggled her shoulders to remind him that her wrists were bound behind her back, under her body.

"My apologies."

He had the scarf off and back so quickly she didn't have time to register that her wrists had briefly been free. Now her arms were bound above her head.

"How are you going to remove the rest of my shirt without untying me?"

"Magic, of course." His mouth had reached the top band of her jeans, above which he pressed his lips. He undid the button of her fly but went to further. He must have retrieved and waved his wand, because she felt her shirt and bra disappear, leaving her naked from the waist up. "Where was I? Ah, that's right..." One hand held her bound wrists above her head as the other went to her chest. "Concentrate on my hands, my voice, my mouth. Forget your position in the Ministry, your difficulties at home. Clear your mind."

"How? How can I possibly clear my mind when there are always ten-thousand thoughts battling for supremacy at any given mome–"

"Shh." He flicked his tongue over the painfully hardened bud in the center of her nipple, which had leapt to attention as soon as her skin was exposed to the cold of his bedroom. She could not hear crackling or see flickers of light through the silk, thus she assumed he hadn't lit a fire upon entry. "I intend to explore you while depriving you of the ability to see or touch me. Concentrate on what you're feeling, what you're hearing. What can you hear?"

"My own heartbeat," she answered honestly. "It's pounding in my ears."

"Are you afraid?"

"A little."

"Should I stop?"

"No. I don't mind being a little afraid."

She felt him smile against the skin of her stomach, where his mouth now rested.

"I know."

"It's just one... it's just one..." She couldn't think of a way to end the sentence. One night? One moment? One blindfold, one experiment, one fear?

"Release," he said. "First, we'll bring you to release. Then..." He tugged on the scarf binding her wrists above her head. "Then I'll release you. Now, relax."

"I'm relaxed," she whispered.

But she wasn't.

Not yet.

It took what felt like both a second and lifetime, but he took her through a series of sensations coupled with an Occlumency lesson, and by the time he had her naked and squirming and begging for that release he promised her mind was blissfully blank, her inhibitions lowered, as she could concentrate only on his voice and his touch.

"Beautiful body," he murmured, his hair tickling her lower belly as he kissed the front of her jutting out hip bone. "Brilliant mind."

His fingers worked deftly between her folds, massaging her swollen clitoris between them. She bucked her hips, desperate to be filled by him, not by his fingers or tongue – he'd already done that – but by his cock. She wanted him to ride her, to be rough with her.

"Fuck me," she pleaded, desperation dripping from her voice. "Fuck me, Headmaster, please. Please? Fuck me."

"I like it when you're vulgar." He sank his teeth into her hip over the spot he'd just kissed and she cried out.

"Please! I need you. Now. I need... I need... oh, fuck, please!"

His hands left her body, his hair no longer brushed against her midsection, and for one horrible moment she feared he'd gotten up and left, unwilling to let her finish. Her wrists were still bound, now tied together and to something beyond the head of the bed; she could not see what, but she could feel the pull as she wriggled and writhed.

She was about to call out for him, to cry out for him, when she felt his hands on her thighs. He nestled his body between her legs, which then wrapped around his waist, and guided himself inside her. Finally. Mercifully.

His hips began to rock and though she was denied the benefit of sight or use of her hands, she was able to find his rhythm and move with him. His calloused hands ran up her sides slowly, putting just the right amount of pressure against her skin. He stopped to squeeze her breasts – this seemed to be his favorite part of her anatomy, though he did not shy away from licking her clit or gripping her bum, and he seemed to pay special attention to the spot where her body dipped in on account of her hip bones jutting out. He liked to kiss her there, to rub his thumb over the soft skin.

Now, though, he was concentrating on her upper body, gripping one breast and lowering his mouth to it while he fucked her. It killed her not being able to hold him, to dig her nails into the backs of his shoulders, to kiss his throat and temples and try to bring his lips to hers, though she knew he'd not allow it.

But then, there they were. His lips, just beyond hers. She could sense them, she could taste the familiar cinnamon whisky. He wasn't kissing her. No, not quite. But he was closer than he'd ever been, and she couldn't help tipping up her face, wanting him in that way.

"You asked me why I'm interested in you," he said, and his lips brushed ever-so-slightly against hers as he spoke. "But I am at a loss to understand why you allow this with me. A woman like you..." He groaned and she felt his cock throb and thrum and twitch inside her as his thrusting became erratic. She knew he was close. "A woman like you, with _me_. You are too good for me, Minister." He brought his lips down, but not against hers. He kissed her cheek, along her jaw line, the spot under her ear... "Beautiful, brilliant... I am not a good man, and you are... you are..." He groaned again, a deep, throaty groan that she'd come to know meant he was indeed feeling that mixture of pleasure and pain, though this time she understood the pain was internal. His voice had a strange almost anguished quality to it, one completely unknown to all but very few people he'd ever met. "Your husband doesn't deserve you, but I don't deserve you either, and yet I am a selfish man because I want you here, with me, all night."

"All night," she whispered. "I want to stay, I want to be with you... like this... I want... I want..." What did she want? She knew what she wanted, but what could she possibly tell him?

"I want dangerous things with you," he confessed and her tummy fluttered at the words. To what dangerous things could he be referring? Was it possible, deep down, that he wanted what she did – to not only be desired and fulfilled, but to be kissed and held?

No, that was too much to hope for.

More likely, he wanted more of this... this bondage stuff. Sensory deprivation. She'd heard other witches talk about such things and knew her introduction into that world tonight was mild at best. It both scared and excited her to think of what else there might be, what else he could teach her and expose her to... Having an affair could be fun if she continued to work on releasing her inhibitions for the sake of seeking base physical satiation.

Though she certainly wouldn't say no to kissing and cuddling.

He moaned into her ear, dragging her back to the moment. She wrapped her legs more tightly around his waist, her heels digging into his arse, and tilted her pelvis to meet him thrust-for-thrust.

"You make me feel good," she murmured. "You make me feel... better."

"Good." He kissed the side of her neck. "I can't even read your name in the Prophet without getting hard." One of his hands slipped down between their sweating, pulsating bodies to play with her clit. He jerked his hips faster, driving into her with such force she wondered whether she'd be able to walk in the morning.

"No photograph necessary, Minister. I read your name and..." He grunted, struggling to speak and move at the same time. "You're bloody brilliant."

"The... brightest... witch... of my... age..." she said, her own breathing ragged and heavy. "Please untie me. Untie me so I that I may touch you."

She fully expected him to say no, but instead she felt the silk scarf fall away. She wrapped her arms around his back, keeping him flush against her in this missionary position, wanting to feel as much of him against her as possible.

She did not ask him to remove the blindfold but he did anyway, and they made eye contact, and he was looking upon her with such desire and reverence... In that moment, it was as if her entire being exploded. Her heart, her stomach, the very core of her magic...

The subsequent orgasm hit her hard, causing her to cry out and claw at him, which brought him to his own release. He collapsed on top of her, both breathing hard and feeling heady. After a few moments, he kissed her temple and rolled off onto his back, not touching her.

She knew this meant the invisible wall had gone up between them.

He wouldn't make physical contact with her again until morning, assuming he wanted to fuck again before she departed.

She knew she shouldn't stay. Shouldn't keep telling herself it's "just one night" whenever she didn't make it home before sunrise. She knew she should, at the very least, send her husband a Patronus, but after the row they'd had the night before, she couldn't help thinking it might feel better to let him suffer a little, wondering when she'd return.

After a few minutes of laying side by side in silence, still not touching, he retrieved his wand and lit a fire, sent their clothes to the laundry chute to be handled by Hogwarts house-elves, and covered them with a cotton sheet and plush blanket.

"Goodnight, Headmaster," she whispered into the darkness, staring straight up at the ceiling.

"Indeed," he said as if in agreement. His voice had returned to its usual cool, emotionless quality, as if he was bidding her adieu at a staff meeting in front of his colleagues. "Goodnight, Minister."

Just one release.

Just one night.

Just one.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Sorry for the delay in posting updates to any of my fics lately. I don't usually let more than week go by without at least updating something, never mind everything, but I've been sick with Pneumonia, which sucks. I also apologize if there are typos in this one; my brain is kind of fried. But it's a much longer chapter than the previous four, so at least there's that! lol. I hope to be back on track soon, though the holidays might derail me a little. Happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate!

 **-AL**


	6. One Distraction: February 2011

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER SIX:**

 **ONE DISTRACTION**

 **FEBRUARY 2011**

"Minister!" His eyes widened with surprise. She had never before dropped in unexpectedly; even when there had been an emergency in the past she'd preceded her appearance with a Patronus.

"Evening, Headmaster," she said formally, inclining her head in greeting.

She was well-dressed tonight, in a fitted but professional charcoal gray pantsuit, with her tamed hair swept back and up into some sort of comb that kept it in place. Her lipstick was a dark burgundy and though he tried to suppress the perverse thoughts that flickered across his brain, he couldn't help imagining that color stained in a ring around his cock. He felt a twinge in his groin at the possibility and immediately employed Occlumency to keep her from knowing, not that she was a Legilimens, but women sense things.

While he looked her over, Hermione waited, hoping for an invitation. When none came, she asked, "May I come in?"

"Certainly." Severus stepped back to grant her entrance into his office, glad Minerva seemed to be asleep in her portrait, as he hoped this was a social call but wasn't in the mood for another of her lectures. "What brings you here?"

"Apparition," she answered. "I find it's the easiest way to travel these days."

"Amusing." He rolled his eyes. "But _why_ are you here?"

"I've spent the entire day in meetings with world leaders, both Magical and Muggle. The Muggle Prime Minister, the Prime Minister of Canada, the President of the United States, the Chancellor of Germany, America's MACUSA President, France's Directeur de Sorciers... etcetera. There is considerable unrest in the world, in both our worlds, and they all want to know how we're going to work together to keep the calm. I had to tell them about the resurgence of the Knights of Walpurgis and how they both predated and have followed the Death Eaters, then they told me about the possible rising of neo-Nazis, and we agreed the entire planet is a bloody mess. Do you have anything to drink?"

"Sounds like a taxing way to spend your Valentine's Day," he said, leading her into his sitting room, surprised at the request. She rarely drank and in the two-and-a-half years since they'd started this – _whatever it was_ – he couldn't recall her ever _asking_ for anything stronger than tea, though she'd occasionally imbibe if a glass was handed to her. He went to the cabinet where he kept his alcohol and poured them each a glass of elf-made red wine; it did not feel like a Firewhisky sort of night.

"Taxing is an understatement! I swear those self-indulging bastards don't care what they're saying or to whom, they just like to hear themselves talk! The Chancellor wasn't so bad, though not terribly warm, and the President of MACUSA is a lovely woman, albeit a bit unusual, but the men? No offense to you or those who share your gender, but I finished a five-hour meeting feeling as though we'd been at work for forty-eight hours straight and left feeling as though I wanted to hex the bollocks off the next man I happen to see!"

"Which brings you to me?" One eyebrow cocked, he regarded her with a look of cagey curiosity as he held out to her a wine glass. "I hope my bollocks are safe."

She flushed a deep crimson as she realized what she'd said.

"I have no desire to divest you of yours," she said. "I feel that would be counter-productive, considering."

"Considering?" He attempted a look of innocence, but she had no intention of playing games. Not tonight.

"As you said, it's Valentine's Day, and since my husband has to 'work late...'" She put air quotes around those two words before accepting the drink. "My mother is watching the children."

A sly grin grew from one cheek to the other, positively lighting up his tired, pale face. "And when does your mother expect you back?"

"She doesn't."

"Excellent." He set the wine he'd just poured down on the table, placed his hand securely at the base of her neck, and swooped in for a kiss. Their lips met before she was ready – she'd just taken a sip and some of the wine sloshed from her mouth to his – but both swallowed it down as his tongue laved over hers. She kissed back with ardor, eager to be distracted by the day's events. He moaned into her mouth and the sound of it caused a clenching in her lower abdomen. Though they'd been together less than a month ago, it had already been too long since their last encounter. She wrapped her arms around him, holding her wine glass behind his head with both hands, and eagerly accepted another passionate kiss, this one even more insistent.

His hands went first to her lower back, then her hips, and finally her arse, thrusting her against him, squeezing her cheeks and forcing her lower belly against his rapidly swelling cock. When they parted it was only because both needed to breathe, and as soon as he had the air to speak, he growled into her ear.

"Witch, you are going to come to my bed and do as I say."

Though this made her knees weak, she tossed her hair (or would have, technically, if it weren't so tightly done up) and said no.

"No?"

"I'll come to your bed, but you're going to do as _I_ say. I've been listening to other people all day, mostly Muggle men, all of whom want to condescend to me about what's best for our world, a world they cannot even understand, and I believe, Headmaster, that what I desire most this evening is to reclaim my power."

This turned him on more than she knew. When they'd started this – _whatever it was_ – she was relatively passive. She'd allow him to do whatever he wanted to her, within reason, but any sort of rough play seemed to shock her, especially when she liked it more than she thought she would. She was content to allow him to take the lead, to dominate her and give her orders, to bind her wrists and pull her hair - all under the guise of teaching her to seek more from sex than the simple satiation she could, theoretically, get at home from her husband. Instead he had opened her mind – and body – to a host of new positions and possibilities. And now, knowing she wanted to take the reins, he felt he was more than ready to relinquish control.

"Shall we indulge in our starters in here, or move straight to the main course?" He lifted his glass from the table again, downing a long, slow sip while she narrowed her eyes and chewed her lip, thinking carefully. He was about to remind her that foreplay was better when she put _less_ thought into it when she spoke up, her chin jutted out to convey more confidence than she felt.

"I'm going to strip you naked, tie you to the bedposts, and tease you with my fingers and tongue and perhaps a feather or flogger until you are certain you can't take another moment of it. Then, when you're so hard it literally hurts, when you're begging me to put you out of your misery, I'm going to ride you until I allow you to be done, and once we've both finished you're going to hold me as if I'm worth more to you than a casual lover, then we shall fall asleep for no less than six hours, and you will kiss me goodbye in the morning."

She had indeed grown bolder in these last few years, though he fought the urge to laugh at her tone and expression – she resembled a pushy teenager, puffed up with false confidence. This bravado faltered slightly as he took too long to respond; he caught the flicker of insecurity across her face and smirked, always one to enjoy having the upper hand.

"I refuse to hold you." He sipped the wine casually, contemplating the rest of her statement. "But I'll allow anything else. _Everything_ else. Use me. Make me suffer. If my pain will bring you pleasure, hurt me in any way you wish. If you'd prefer to punish me with a gentle touch, I'll not fight you. Ride me until I'm too tired to move, tie me down, give me orders... you'll spend the night in my bed and, at sunrise, I shall even kiss you goodbye. But I'll not hold you."

She considered this compromise. Spending the night in his bed may be enough. She'd done that before, though not as often as she would have liked. It was somehow more intimate, sleeping beside each other, quiet and at peace, than it was to be naked and fucking, tandem breathing and timing their orgasms.

When sleeping, they were vulnerable.

Sometimes, when sleeping, he would move to her in the middle of the night, would place a hand on her abdomen or allow her to drape a leg over his thigh.

Sometimes, when he was sleeping, she'd sit up and watch him, wondering what he dreamt about, and fantasizing about kissing him in the daylight.

It could be downright dangerous, sleeping together.

"I'll agree to your terms, Headmaster." She stuck out her hand. He shook it.

"You won't regret this, Minister."

"I'm quite sure I will, but not enough not to do it again at first opportunity." She said this with such an innocent, genuine smile he couldn't help responding with a chuckle.

"Into my chambers, then." He gestured toward the door.

"No, sir." She removed the jacket of her suit and draped it over the back of his couch, smiling at him over her shoulder. "I give the orders tonight, remember?"

"My apologies."

"You are forgiven. Now, carry me."

"Excuse me?" That one eyebrow was up again, nearly lost into his hairline.

"Carry me into your bedroom. You don't have to hold me, but I want you to carry me to bed. Make me feel wanted."

"I believe I can manage that, Minister." He had only a split second to decide between lifting her as he had in the past, facing each other with her legs wrapped around his waist, and scooping her up as a rescuing prince might a storybook princess. Thinking it might make up for his unwillingness to _cuddle_ (the very word disgusted him) he opted to scoop.

She let out a little gasp of happy surprise, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Moments later, they were in his bedchambers, where he deposited her carefully onto the mattress of his large four-poster bed, atop a plush moss green blanket.

"We don't have to tie you down straight away," she said, propping herself up with her elbows to face him standing beside the bed. "First, you'll undress for me."

"I won't do a striptease, if that's your fantasy," he said dryly. "I am far too old and far too ugly for such silliness."

"How old _are_ you? You just had a birthday in January. I don't know the date."

"It was the ninth and I turned fifty-one. Too bloody old for a young witch like you."

"I'll be thirty-two in September. Not so young."

"Young enough that you still say, 'I'll be...' so you can up your age, even when your birthday is more than seven months away. Tell me, in March, will you claim to be 'Thirty-one and a half' or..."

"If I wanted you to do a strip tease, I could force you," she interrupted, annoyed and wishing to change the subject. She hated being reminded of her youth; it was one of the things the Prophet and those who'd voted against her ascension to Minister brought up most. "If I wanted you to strip for me, I'd use the Imperius Curse."

"I'd block it."

"With what wand? Wait... let me guess... You intended to use _this_ wand?" From behind her she presented his wand, apparently slipped from him at some point between the sitting room and the bedroom. She grinned devilishly when his jaw dropped. "They taught us how to perform the Imperius Curse when I was working in the Magical Defense Dark Arts Detection and Regulation Department, working closely with Unspeakables. I'd tell you what they do specifically, but it's, you know... unspeakable."

He clamped his mouth shut, glared at her for several seconds, and finally sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "It's adorable that you think because the Ministry taught you to use the Imperius Curse and you're holding my wand, I couldn't throw it off as easily as I could wave away a pesky fly. I promise, _nothing_ Shacklebolt taught _you_ will supersede the lessons the Dark Lord taught _me_."

Disturbing as it might to any outsiders, were this conversation to be overheard, this was but foreplay to them, a sinful competition that would end in mutual satisfaction.

"I'm not afraid of a former _Death Eater_ , and especially not one who defected before I was born. I'm the bloody Minister for Magic, remember? Besides, I know all your weaknesses."

"What weaknesses, witch?" He moved closer until his legs were against the edge of the mattress, and leaned to loom over her, but she did not look even slightly intimidated by the position. On the contrary, she continued to lay on her back, propped up by one elbow, twisting his hand between the fingers on her free hand, as casually as if she were at a summer picnic instead of in the bed of a man who was not her husband. The only thing that would make this moment better, in his eyes, would be if she were naked for it. He briefly considered vanishing her clothing, but frankly he was hoping she would perform her own striptease after tying him down – a welcome torment.

"Remove your frock coat first. Then shirt, then trousers. Socks too. And shoes, obviously. But leave your shorts on for now. It doesn't need to be an artistic divesting of the clothing, I don't intend to play music or expect you to dance, nor will I toss knuts and sickles your way, but I'm going to watch."

"Knuts and sickles?" He feigned hurt. "Surely I'm worth at least a couple of galleons."

"You're worth my _time_ ," she answered. "And that's invaluable. Now... get on with it. Coat first. Let's go."

He began by unbuttoning his starchy collar.

"That's good," she said as she drew a line with his wand from the center of her throat down to the valley between her breasts. As she did so, her own buttons popped open, one by one. She stopped when she reached the center band of her bra, giving him ample view of her modest cleavage. He paused his own ministrations to focus on hers. "Did I tell you to stop, Headmaster?"

He smirked and continued. There were what felt like millions of tiny buttons down his front and he undid each in a painstakingly slow way, never averting his eyes from hers, not even when she brought his wand down lower, leaving her blouse completely undone.

When his frock coat was on the floor and he started again from the top – more buttons – she lost her patience. She waved his wand, divesting him of everything but his pants (shorts, actually. Blue silk ones that almost made her wonder whether he had intended to spend the night with another woman before she'd shown up).

"In a hurry?" he asked coolly.

"You should undress me," she replied.

"I should? Or I must? If your intention this evening is to order me around, take care that your orders are _orders_ and not mere suggestions. Suggestions can be ignored."

"Now." She knelt up, facing him, trying to look stern. "I want you to undress me and I want it done now. I order you."

"Very well; as you order." He slipped her unbuttoned white blouse down her arms and tossed it to the floor before going to the clasp at her waist. He continued to make uninterrupted eye contact as he undid it, sliding the material slowly over her arse and to her knees. She dropped back onto the bed to allow him to continue. He then positioned his body over hers, running his palms over her bra-covered breasts before she grabbed his wrists to stop him.

"You are supposed to be undressing me, sir, not weighing my chest with your hands."

"Let me be in control." He squeezed one breast – hard – and forced his knee between her thighs, parting her legs. "It's better that way. You like it when I'm in control. I'll tie you down, I'll spank you for the offensive interruption into my evening, punish you until you're begging release."

"No, thank you. Not tonight. I've had enough of relinquishing control to men today. I have no choice but to be polite to them, but I want to... I want... I want to punish and emasculate you!"

He chuckled. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do!"

"You don't know how."

"I... yes, I do! I absolutely do! I most certainly do!" Her cheeks went pink and his smirk grew. The more she insisted she did, the more it became clear she did not. "I order you to... to... to remove your shorts at once and position yourself on your back on this bed! Now!"

He pressed a quick kiss to her collarbone before standing up to oblige. He slid the silk shorts down his legs, revealing his developing erection, and moved obediently to the bed as she vacated it.

She straddled him, tossed his wand aside, and reached for her own. With a casual flick of her wrist, both of his were bound to the headboard by the same scarves he'd previously used on her.

"Do you feel... do you feel controlled now?" she asked, jutting up her chin. She undid the comb from her hair, tossed it to the floor, and shook out the strands dramatically. "Do you feel submissive to me?"

"No," he replied honestly, a twinkle in his impossible dark eyes. "I feel amused. I can sense that you have no idea where to go from here, and I am eager to watch you struggle."

"What makes you think I'll struggle?"

"You're struggling now. Not with me, but with yourself. You are frustrated, yes, but you are also unused to being in this position of power in a sexual setting. It is quite unlike being in charge in professional setting. You enjoy submitting to me but the reversal of roles frightens you. You do not know what you might be capable of doing – you're both afraid that you'll be unable to dominate me, and afraid that you'll do so successfully and enjoy it too much."

"That's utterly ridiculous!" she exclaimed, but the way she avoided his eye told him he'd been spot on.

"Hurt me, then, Minister. Punish me. Place me under your complete control."

"Stop telling me what to do!" She climbed off him, turned her back to his body on the bed, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Petulant child," he said, goading her. "Going to throw a tantrum? Cry, scream, stomp your feet? Tell me how unfair all the world is, how terrible it is to know you should be the most powerful person in the room but instead to be condescended to and cast aside by those to whom you should be revered? Are you going to whine about your husband, out with another woman tonight, likely free from the emotional hang-ups and–"

"Stop it!"

"He's probably panting over her right now, Minister. He's in control. He holding her down, fucking her into submission, into oblivion. He knows how to get what he wants."

"I mean it, you shut it, stop talking."

"She's on her back, or perhaps bent at the waist with him behind. Or do you suppose he likes her on all fours? He's pulling her hair as if restraining an unruly dog on a leash. She's pulsating with pleasure. He knows just what she needs, and you know only how to express your frustration in words, words he ignores, just as he ignores you in the bedroom."

She turned, stalked over to him, and slapped his face as hard as she could, leaving a pink handprint. Her eyes were glassy and full of hurt – but also fire.

"That stung," he said. Before she could open her mouth to apologize, he added, "Do it again."

She hesitated, but then, picturing Ron with a submissive slag down on all fours as Severus said, she slapped the Headmaster again, leaving an even greater red welt. He groaned as his semi-hardness swelled proudly.

"You want me to hurt you?" she asked. She brought her small hand up to his neck, pressing the space between her thumb and forefinger against his Adam's apple. Her fingernails lightly dug into his skin, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. It had been a painfully long time since a witch last abused him in the bedroom. He liked it. He'd missed it.

"I'm not afraid of you, Minister." He regarded her as one would an attention seeking puppy, placating, but dismissively. "You amuse me. You're... cute."

"Cute?"

"Adorable."

"Adorable?!"

"Swipe at me again, but this time, make contact with my face. I think you missed last time. Or perhaps you're simply so weak I was unable to feel it."

She drew back her hand, ready to strike, but after several seconds of staring down at him, she lowered her hand and sighed.

"You're right. I can't do it. I'm not cut out for sadism or dominance. I'm weak." She tipped forward until her forehead was resting on the center of his chest, which put his engorged cock against her abdomen in a most uncomfortable way. "This is why no one listens to me in meetings."

"I... fuck." This was not the response he'd intended to elicit. His hands were still bound to the headboard, he was completely naked, hard, and cold. And, suddenly, he could feel droplets of water on his torso that were most definitely tears. "I was trying to – I did not mean to – this was not..."

"Sometimes I think I am not cut out for this position at all, you know?"

"Which position?" He certainly wasn't cut out for his current position. His manhood was bent awkwardly under the weight of her body, her hair was tickling his sides, and one of the tears had made its way to his nipple.

"Minister for Magic! Ever since I got elected, my life is falling apart! My husband doesn't desire me, my children don't respect me, I feel like an actor when I'm at work, like I'm playing a role, like I'm undercover, terrified they'll discover I'm a fraud! And I haven't been hugged in seven weeks!"

"And hugged is a euphemism for...?"

"Hugged!" She sat up, again straddling his hips, and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "A little affection, or... or... attention, or appreciation might be nice! But no one... no one..."

Now she was sobbing. Her entire body shook, creating a spasm-like sensation against his thighs, as hers were flush against his. His erection was abandoning him, along with all hope for a satisfying evening with the witch, and he didn't seem able to nonverbally release himself from her binding spell (which would have been impressive in other circumstances).

"What's wrong with me?! Am I unattractive? Am I unintelligent? Am I..."

"You are both attractive and intelligent."

"No, I'm not." She covered her face in her hands, muffling her next words. "You said it best years ago! I'm a big-toothed, bushy haired insufferable know-it-all!"

"Bloody... damn... shite... fuck!" He wished he could get up and fix them both a stiff drink, but unfortunately, despite her confessed weakness in the moment, she still had the control. "I am sorry I called you an insufferable know-it-all, I am sorry I said I saw no difference in the size of your teeth, and I am sorry... if ever I insulted your hair, I am sorry for that, too."

"I should have been a dentist!"

"Would you mind releasing my wrists?" he asked, his voice without inflection.

"Hmm? Oh, sure." She waved her hand and the bindings fell away. He flexed his hands and massaged his wrists. She wiped her face with her palms, breathing shakily, with little hiccups between slowly dissipating sobs.

"Come here." He ran his strong, slightly calloused hands up her sides, from her thighs to her hips to her ribcage, then wrapped them around her and pulled her chest to his.

"What are you doing?" she asked, still hiccupping.

"Is it not obvious?" He ran his hands up and down her bare back, pressing down hard, as if giving a massage. This clearly had a calming effect, as he felt her body relax on top of his. She rested her cheek against the front of his shoulder, facing him. He closed his eyes, so she did the same.

"It feels like you're holding me," she said softly.

"You wanted to be in charge, did you not? And you ordered me to hold you, didn't you?"

"But you said no."

"You'll spend the night?" One of his hands worked under her hair, scratching against her scalp, further releasing the tension from her body.

"Yes."

"Good." He waved a hand, Accioing over the blanket that had been tossed from the bed before he'd crawled into it. He covered them as she slipped from on top of him to beside, though she kept her head positioned on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the arm that was under her, even though he knew it would soon go dead on him from her weight. With the fingertips of his free hand, he traced patterns up and down her forearm, which was resting on his chest. "This may not be the ideal time to tell you, but she's pregnant again."

"Your wife?"

"I'm not convinced it's mine." He brought Hermione's hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips over her wrist, feeling her pulse against his lips. "I told her I wanted no more. I told her in October, in no uncertain terms, as I told you then."

"But you've been sleeping with her?" Now Hermione was the one tracing patterns, drawing nonsense shapes over his left pectoral. He kept his arms around her.

"She's my wife."

"What does this mean for us?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's having another child. She's pregnant and you're... you're with me."

"Does that bother you?"

"Shouldn't it?"

"I want you." He repositioned them so that she was on her back and he, beside her, was leaning over. He splayed his fingers under her breast, "Minister, I want _you_. I want to share my bed with you."

"We shouldn't."

"I know." But she was guiding his face to hers, guiding his lips to hers.

"We have to stop this," she murmured, her lips brushing against his. She could feel him breathing into her, taking the breath from her, like a Dementor except that _his_ kiss filled her with the warmth she craved rather than a hollow, terrifying, empty cold. "Headmaster, we have to stop this."

"I know."

But then his lips were on hers and her tongue was seeking his, and without further conversation they were touching each other, caressing, exploring, stimulating... and then he was inside her and she was clinging to him with an almost embarrassing level of desperation, and he was panting into her ear, inhaling the sweet familiar scent of her hair...

And they both were wishing things could be... different.

But they couldn't be.

They couldn't.

This, what they were doing, meant nothing, and to each other, they meant nothing.

This was merely a distraction.

Just one distraction.

Just one Valentine's Day.

Just one more 'just one night.'

Nothing more.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Sorry for the long delay between posting! The holidays, New Year, and some personal stuff got in the way, but I'm going back to weekly updates. Thanks for reading!

 **-AL**


	7. One Passage: December 2012

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER SEVEN:**

 **ONE PASSAGE**

 **DECEMBER 2012**

She had no reason to be at Hogwarts. No reason she could share with anyone, anyway. Not Harry, not Ginny, not Luna or Cecile, and most certainly not Ron.

It was the night before Christmas Eve. The Minister and the Headmaster had already had their end of calendar year meeting (no sex followed, much to her disappointment, as he said he had a late staff meeting with the Heads of Houses. She tried not to take it personally) and wouldn't need to see each other again for months, unless there was an issue.

Since he was attacked by Knights back in June, both had grown better at coming up with issues.

And, as of September, she'd shown up on more than one occasion for no reason at all, unannounced. But she had to be careful. They couldn't have anyone asking questions, wondering why the Minister for Magic had cause to be at the school all the bloody time.

In early October he suggested she connect the Floo in his office to the one in hers, making things easier.

Too easy.

That morning, she told her husband she intended to finish Christmas shopping for the children after work. In truth, she'd finished weeks ago, always one to get it done early and have everything wrapped and hidden away with plenty of time to go. The fact that he accepted her excuse for missing dinner without so much as a question both hurt more and helped ease the pain in knowing what she was intending to do. They had known each other since they were eleven years old, and been together romantically since the Final Battle. He ought to know her well enough to know she wouldn't be Christmas shopping for the children the night before Christmas Eve.

Damn him.

"Alright, 'ermione?" asked Cecile as she was packing up her things, ready to leave the Ministry after a long, difficult day. Hermione smiled at her assistant.

"Oui," said Hermione with a nod. "All's well, but it's late. You ought to be getting home now."

"You ought to be getting 'ome, too." Cecile was not shy in sharing her belief that Hermione Granger worked too much, though Hermione couldn't help thinking Cecile might benefit from working _more._ The woman was only two years Hermione's junior, a graduate of Beauxbatons, beautiful in both appearance and personality, and, though good at her job, was more focused on fun than career advancement. She was also currently Hermione's closest confidant, as the Minister could hardly complain about Ronald Weasley to Harry or Ginny. On the most difficult days, Cecile's presence around their little corner of the Ministry was all that kept Hermione sane.

Cecile's presence, and the promise of seeing Severus soon.

Hermione waited fiften minutes after her assistant's departure in case the woman returned

She flooed directly to Hogwarts, prepared to ask him to pull her hair and rough her up a bit; she was in need of serious tension release.

But Severus was not alone.

He was sitting in the hard-backed leather chair behind his desk, glaring disdainfully at a dark-haired female. From behind, Hermione could not immediately discern whether she was a professor, a student, or neither, only that she was tall, she wore head-to-toe black, and her hair was wild.

"Minister!" he said, either genuinely surprised or adept at feigning it. "This is unexpected. What brings you here?"

"A problem with paperwork." She wasn't the best liar - or actress - but she'd managed a quick and believable response, and, even more impressively, she hadn't heaved a relieved sigh upon doing so. "My assistant was set to file the minutes from our last meeting tonight, but we have a couple of discrepancies to go over. Being the holiday, I thought it would be faster to see you about it in person, rather than awaiting a reply by owl. But I apologize for interrupting."

"No apology necessary." Though his words were kind, his tone was dry and flat. "Come in. We were only having tea."

The female in the chair opposite Severus turned. This time, it was harder for Hermione to fight her reaction.

The resemblance to the girl's mother was uncanny.

She had her father's eyes and disdainful glare, but the rest of her - nose, cheekbones, complexion, wild hair - was unmistakably Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Delphini, meet Hermione Granger, Minister for Magic. Ms. Granger, this is my eldest daughter, Delphini."

"Nice to meet you," said Hermione, smiling pleasantly. "Your father tells me your Charms work is excellent."

"He has two others at home," the girl said, ignoring Hermione's outstretched hand.

"Others?"

"Other daughters. Iris is six and Imogene is just a baby. He likes them better than me. You have a daughter too. Rose, a first year." Delphini sneered. _"Gryffindor."_

"Don't let's be rude," scolded Severus, but still in that bored, dull tone, without conviction.

"People treat her differently on account of who she is," Delphini continued. "Because of who _you_ are. They treat her better to her face, but talk behind her back. They used to talk about me behind my back too, because of who my mother was, but now they know better than to cross me." The girl looked Hermione up and down as if daring her to ask for further explanation.

"Delphini, back to your dormitory." Severus waved his wand, vanishing their tea and chocolate biscuits. "I shall see you in the morning."

"I won't be at breakfast."

"In the afternoon, then. We shall finish our discussion tomorrow."

"I am not interested in finishing our discussion tomorrow, or ever, _Headmaster."_ The teenager tossed her hair, curled her lip, and glared at Hermione. "They think you're better than you are, but we know you're not, don't we?"

"Delphini! Out, now." He grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and turned her to face the direction of the door. "You do not have to like Ms. Granger as a person or as a politician, but I'll not have your behavior reflect poorly on me in front of the Minister for Magic. Bad enough it reflects poorly on me as Headmaster of this school."

She cocked an eyebrow, greatly increasing her resemblance to him, but the effect was short-lived. The girl's face relaxed and she laughed. Cackled. It was her mother's cackle.

"You think it matters to _me_ how my behavior reflects upon _you?_ They're smarter this time, better prepared. All they've done thus far is _play_ _games_ with the wizarding world while _testing the waters._ By the time they're truly ready to make themselves known, that Mudblood and her Ministry will see how wrong they've been to underestimate..."

"Out!" He shoved her toward the door, his palm against her back between shoulder blades. "We shall continue this discussion tomorrow, and I want to hear nothing else of it until then! And you had better be at breakfast!"

"I'm leaving, then." She smirked at Hermione over her shoulder as she reached for the door that would lead down the winding stone staircase and away from his office. "Happy Christmas, Minister."

Once they'd heard the second door close and were certain she was well out of earshot, Hermione advanced on Severus, who was collapsing into his chair, pressing two fingers to each of his temples and looking exhausted.

"What in the name of merry Merlin was that?!"

"She's going through a phase."

"A _phase?_ It sounded like she was threatening you, me, and the entire Ministry of Magic!"

"It's a 'threatening your father, his mistress, and the entire Ministry of Magic' phase. Don't all teenage girls go through it at one time or another?"

Ignoring having been called his mistress, Hermione dropped into the chair Delphini had vacated and shook her head in dismay. "No. That is not a normal teenage girl phase."

"She's the one playing games and testing the waters. She wants to get a reaction out of me, a rise. She very nearly did. She's not really in tune with the inner workings of the Knights of Walpurgis."

"How can you be certain?"

"I cannot. But she is being closely watched. She is not permitted to go on Hogsmeade visits as her guardians revoked her permission."

"The Malfoys."

"Yes. Her aunt Narcissa watches her carefully, too. We've been corresponding regularly since the start of this summer."

Hermione felt a slight pang. She'd seen him far too frequently over these last six months, and he hadn't mentioned to her that his daughter was in need of extra 'watching.' He lifted his wand halfheartedly and flicked it toward the cabinet by the window. Out flew a bottle of elf made red wine from his favorite French vineyard. This was no inexpensive bottle. He opened it and poured into two glasses that had followed his "Accio," then passed one across the desk to her.

"Thank you," she said. He nodded slightly before sipping. "Do you suppose the Malfoys are backing the Knights of Walpurgis as they once did the Death Eaters? We know, despite their reformation, that they still hold tightly to blood purity. Draco's sister-in-law, Daphne Greengrass, said Lucius and Narcissa offered Draco a large sum of gold if he'd call off marrying her, on account of how vocally pro-mixed marriage her parents have been since the war. Daphne's married to Oliver Wood, whose Mum's a Muggle."

"The Malfoys may be as steeped in blood supremacy as they always were, but I firmly believe they would never support another Dark Lord or anyone beholden to such ideals and in search of power. Having him in their home for several years, watching the carnage and torture, and sometimes falling victim to it themselves, had a profound effect on them. They wish to keep their bloodline pure for reasons of old-line pride, but no longer believe the wizarding world should exclude - or exterminate - Muggleborns."

"But Delphini..."

"I told you, it's a phase. But it _is_ becoming a problem. Narcissa insisted she stay at Hogwarts over Christmas this year. And they refuse to take her back next summer. They've asked me to make other arrangements. After having spent the last fourteen years insisting upon raising her because it was Bellatrix's last wish, Narcissa is finally at her wits end - and Lucius didn't want the girl from the start. I think I'll have to take her back to my childhood home, if it can be sufficiently repaired, as Hestia refuses to allow her around our daughters."

Hermione took a long sip of wine, not because she was thirsty or even because she liked it, but because it was something to do while formulating her next sentence.

"She calls you Headmaster rather than Father. Is this a sign of respect or disrespect?"

"I believe it started because she wanted to fit in with the other students. But now she says it with a degree of viciousness that reminds me I mean nothing more to her than I do to any other child. She has gone from being desperate for my affection to being indifferent to outright hating me." He ran his fingertip around the rim of the glass, staring into its contents. "She recently assaulted a third year Slytherin in the library. She overheard the girl telling others they ought to carry chocolate at all times in case she comes around, as she sucks happiness out of the room like Dementor."

Hermione shifted to the edge of her seat, at once sickened and anxious and angry. She hadn't heard about any assault. Had he covered it up?

"What did she do?"

"She grabbed the girl by the throat and forced her back against the book shelves, and moved close to her, until their mouths were nearly touching. Then she said, 'Get in my way again and you'll wish I were weak as a Dementor. A Dementor's kiss only _steals_ your soul. I'll _destroy_ it.'" She left the poor child quaking and sobbing."

"And what was the punishment?"

"Me. Instead of tea once per week, we take tea once per day. I could think of no greater punishment."

"For you or for her?"

There was a long silence during which she wondered if she'd gone too far by asking the question. He finished his first glass of wine and poured another while she nursed hers. This evening was not going as expected. Perhaps Cecile was right and she ought to have been getting home too. Home to her husband and her children. They weren't perfect, but at least they weren't quite so damaged.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, his face expressionless. "We are damaged, Delphini and I. We both spent our teenage years desperate for the love of our dead mothers and brimming with contempt for the fathers we blamed for their deaths. I should be grateful it took this long for her to hate me. I started thinking up ways to off my own father when I was only eight. But then, he beat me. I've never laid a hand on her."

"Your mother died?" Hermione's brows pulled together and up, her eyes went soft with sympathy, and she leaned forward, reaching out as if she wanted to take his hand across the desk, but he did not remove his from the glass even though holding it did not require two.

"She died when I was eleven, shortly after I left for school."

"I'm so sorry."

"Why? You didn't kill her." He downed the second glass of wine much too quickly, stood, and stretched. "Are you here to fuck?"

"I..."

He never put it quite like this, at least not in his office. Despite all the dirty things they'd thus far done to each other, that wording in this setting made her feel immoral and uncomfortable.

"You could stay the night," he said. "Just one."

"I... tomorrow is Christmas Eve."

"If you are unable to stay the night, we should say adieu now."

Adieu meant goodbye. It meant no sex, no nothing. It means he wasn't interested. He hadn't bid her 'adieu' in months. Years, maybe. She couldn't remember when he last denied her that way.

"You want me to stay the night?"

He shrugged as if he couldn't care less, but she could see through the facade despite his decades of proficiency in Occlumency.

"If you are so inclined."

"I want to stay the night."

"Very well. I need to finish a letter to the Malfoys. I'll join you in the bedroom shortly."

She set down her wine glass and let her mouth drop open. He'd never sent her along to his bedroom before. It felt... not right. But, unable to put into words any reason why she shouldn't wait for him there, she simply closed her mouth, abandoned the wine, and headed through the door that led to his sitting room, which separated the office from the bedroom.

She stripped down to her slip and undergarments, then crawled under his covers, but this, too, felt wrong. So she got back up, took his dressing gown off the hook on the door to the loo, put it on, and began perusing his book shelves. Between his office, sitting room, and bedroom, he must have hundreds and hundreds of books. She was surprised to see that he didn't seem to have any rhyme nor reason to the organization of these. Muggle fiction was set between wizarding textbooks, Shakespeare plays were placed beside mystery novels written by a witch named Agatha Gray, and he had a number of thick hard-backed tomes so old the gilded letters on the leather spines had all but worn away. She removed one of these and opened it, only to let out a surprised gasp when she discovered it was hollow, and another book was inside.

An erotic romance novel.

The cover was glossy and cliche. A tanned, muscle-bound man with a torn open shirt had one arm around the waist of a frail but buxom auburn haired vixen, and both were standing at the end of what looked like the plank of a pirate ship.

The Wench and the Wizards read the title. By Wendolyn Wyrd. Hermione flipped to the first page. Copyright, 1991. She tried to picture Severus in 1991. She was a first year, he was her potions professor. Snarky, subdued and serious, scowling down from the head table, dubbing Potter the school's "new celebrity," and ignoring her overeager waving hand. It was near impossible to picture that man curled up in bed on a cold winter's night reading... this? She flipped it to the back to read the description.

 _Lucretia Haversham Brooks has the name of a member of nobility and the purse of an unsuccessful beggar. She makes her living, if it can even be called such, by flittering around London, flirting for sickles and, occasionally, lying down for galleons. When she catches the eye of a a visiting wizard, she wonders if her fortune might change. Sir Thomas Greenthorne is handsome, wealthy, and talented, they have the loveliest things in common, and he seems to be smitten with her, enough to propose marriage and promise a lifetime of caring for her. But shortly after their unmistakable chemistry leads to a mutually-desired but vanilla consummation, Lucretia is kidnapped by magical pirates sailing the seas in search of women to take to their newly discovered island. Over the monthlong journey, Lucretia is chosen as 'wife' by a pirate named Cartwright McCarroll, as assignment she initially fights against out of loyalty to Sir Thomas, but when the pirate is able to introduce her to the island's erotic underground world, where wizards take witches in pairs but it's the witches who hold all the control, she starts to wonder whether she still wants sweet Sir Thomas to save her._

"Find something interesting?"

Hermione leapt into the air, tossing the book across the room. Her entire body began to blush, a feeling that intensified when he Accioed over the novel. He blanched upon realizing what she'd had in her hand.

"This is not mine," he said, staring down at the cover, stone-faced.

"No?" she asked. Realizing he was just as embarrassed (as opposed to infuriated) helped her relax a bit. His next statement helped her relax a bit more.

"No, it is not. I found it."

"You found it?"

"That is correct. I found it."

"Did you find it inside this hollow book?" asked Hermione. She opened it to tap an inscription along the inside front cover. "The one that reads 'Property of Severus Snape'?"

"I..." He cleared his throat, straightened his spine, and stared down at her as defiantly as Delphini had stared up at her earlier. "Very well. It is mine. But I purchased it for research purposes only."

Hermione couldn't help snickering. "What were you researching? Magical pirates and their erotic underground islands?"

"You should understand and appreciate that some of us best learn from books," he said. "And there are some things even textbooks do not teach." He stalked to her, placed the novel back inside its hollowed hiding spot, and returned it to its shelf.

"Did these books teach you to be a good lover?" Now feeling emboldened, she slid one hand up from his abdomen to his chest to his shoulder. "Did they teach you to satisfy two witches at once while they hold all the control?"

"Let's get another witch in here and I'll show you."

"Or..." She removed the book from the shelf again. "We could get in bed and read to each other. I've never read an erotic novel, and now, knowing both that you have and that it was such an important teaching tool, all I can think is that I've missed out on tutelage I've desperately needed. You know I like to know everything. I'm an insufferable know-it-all."

"You want to get in bed and read?"

"Why don't we flip through until we find one of your most educational passages. I'll read it aloud to you and then you can act it out for me, as I may need practical instruction as well as..."

She couldn't finish her sentence because his mouth was on hers. They stumbled toward the bed, falling into it as if melded together by extreme heat.

Scarcely fifteen minutes later he was sitting with his back to the wall, completely naked and painfully hard. She straddled him but would not let him touch her, nor would she touch him - not _there_ \- as she continued to read aloud. Her breasts brushed against his chest every time she inhaled, and though it was difficult he obeyed her instruction not to grab her arse or palm her tits, not to squeeze her thighs or bury his hands in her hair. No, he kept both down by side sides, clutching the blankets, as she reached one of his favorite parts.

 _"She'd never tasted another witch before, never even considered it, but as her lips traveled down the soft, suppled skin of the woman writhing below her, she couldn't help going wet at the thought of doing to the wench what Cartwright had only moments ago been doing to her. She stopped to suckle lightly at the witch's breast, flicking her tongue over the hardened pebble in the center, eliciting a breathy moan that so resembled her own it made her pussy clench with want. Cartwright must have heard the faint sound too, for he let out a low growl and reclined on the bed beside them, his thick, hard wizard's wand securely in his pumping hand. Lucretia was further aroused by this, by knowing that her actions not only excited the woman underneath her, but the man by their side. She continued her southern trek, briefly dipping the tip of her tongue into the witch's naval before reaching her intended destination._

 _"The witch's legs fell even more open, now spread so wide the right was slung across the legs of their lover, who continued to wank and groan and watch them closely. She flicked out her tongue, making first contact with the swollen nub between the wench's slick slits..."_

"You have to fuck me," Severus said, no longer able to adhere to her rules. He grabbed her hips and lifted her, needing to be inside. "Please, you have to. I'm in pain Herm...minister. Minister. Please."

She nearly dropped the book.

Never, not in all the years since this started, not in over four years, had he called her Hermione, not even close, never a slip up. And yet, there it was. Herm...minister. Herminister.

"Headmaster?" she whispered, wondering how he'd react if she called him Severus tonight as she came (she was certain he'd get her there, though sometimes he didn't. Tonight, she was already so thoroughly aroused, a cocked eyebrow could probably get her there).

"You'll fuck me, and read to me, and stay the night."

"In that order?" She crawled closer but lifted her body higher, so she was positioned over his presumably throbbing cock, but not yet ready to give him what he was begging for. "After we're through, you want me to continue reading?"

"Unless you have something better in mind?"

"We could switch roles. You could read to me." Using her hand to guide it, she let the tip of his cock slide inside her, just enough for him to feel it when she clenched her interior muscles.

"You'd like to listen to me read an erotic novel aloud to you?"

"You're serious? You could read the bar menu from the Hog's Head Pub and I'd be a sopping mess by the time you're through. Reading _this?_ I may have to _swim_ out of here tomorrow; it'll be as if the tide has come in."

His hand made its way under her hair, to the back of her neck, as he pulled her in for another searing kiss. She finally lowered herself onto him, taking him completely, with her inner thighs flush against his outer thighs. He cried out when she began to bounce and used one hand on her arse to help them find a rhythm. The other remained entangled in her hair as he kissed her again... and again... and again.

"I want to watch you taste a witch," he growled into her ear, pulling her closer until her breasts were painfully smushed against his chest. "I want to watch you do to her what you'd like me to do to you."

"Yes, yes, Headmaster, yes!" she moaned as she rode him. Though this had never quite crossed her mind before, she now found herself finding the very idea of it thrillingly arousing. Not just to be with another woman, but to do so with him watching, with him wanting her but having to watch her with another. Her now-dead sex life with Ron had always been of the Sir Thomas Greenthorne vanilla variety. She needed a pirate.

He rubbed her clit with her fingers as she bounced and thrust and grinded in his lap, and he whispered increasingly dirty requests in her ear until she bit down on his shoulder and shook with the power of the best orgasm she'd had in months, including those she enjoyed solo in the tub with the detachable shower head positioned 'just-so.'

He followed soon after, and after a quick spell to clean the sheets, they slipped under the covers. The days of barely touching his pinkie with hers were long gone; rather, she relaxed into his embrace as he spooned her from behind. She placed her hand over his as he kissed her shoulder several times. Both were too tired to pick up the novel again tonight.

She was nearly asleep when his low, deep, resonating voice was in her ear, so softly it was almost in her head.

"Do you have sex with your husband?"

"No," she whispered. "Not in years. Why?"

"I do not want you with him." He pressed his lips the back of her shoulder again. She knew this was one of his favorite parts of her body. "Or with anyone else."

"Are you having sex with your wife?" she asked, jutting out her chin even though he couldn't see the truculent expression on her face.

"No, not since I learned she'd conceived again."

"That was nearly a year ago."

"I know." His nose brushed aside her hair, giving him better access to her neck. He sucked her skin, surely leaving a mark. She had told him off for this before; there was absolutely no reason - or excuse - for so-called 'love bites' after age twenty or so, but she suspected he liked knowing he had something to hide upon leaving him; a visual representation of their sordid affair.

"You haven't been with her in nearly a year?"

"There's only one woman I want in my bed."

Hermione's heart fluttered. _What was he saying?_

They'd always been very clear about the nature of this arrangement. It was physical. Not emotional. Not romantic. They were shagging, not dating. They didn't even use each other's first names, not even when bringing each other to the precipice of ecstasy and over.

It was always just one night.

Just one kiss.

Just one touch, one caress, one conversation... one lick or suck or fuck...

"Who do you want in your bed?" she whispered, tightening her grip on his hand, pressing it against her lower abdomen.

His response was the light snoring she'd grown accustomed to during these "just one" nights.

In the morning, before she had to leave for home, she'd ask him to read. Not much. Not a whole chapter.

Just one passage.

Just one.


	8. One Request: June 2010

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER EIGHT:**

 **ONE REQUEST**

 **JUNE 2010**

The end of year meeting was long, dull, frustrating, and largely unnecessary, and both Hermione and Severus were disappointed that they were not alone for it. They were joined by three members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors: longtime Secretary Mafalda Hopkirk, ten-year Treasurer Percival Weasley, and newly-elected President Lucius Malfoy.

"You're looking well, Minister," said Malfoy, dragging his eyes over her from stem to stern, his steel gray eyes piercing through the long purple witch's robe she wore over a simple white business suit. "These years since the war have treated you kindly."

"Yes, I am considerably less stressed than I was in my youth, Mr. Malfoy." She looked him over too, but without the lascivious undertones. "Now that my kind no longer have to fear eradication at the hands of a blood supremacist madman, we are able to relax a little. Let our hair down, so to speak." She threw in this last line as a thinly veiled dig at him. His hair - his glorious, luscious, long blond lovely hair - was noticeably thinning on top and going gray to boot.

"But is that safe?" he asked, his voice dripping with false concern. "We've all heard the rumors, of course."

"Rumors?" She played it cool, but inwardly she was panicking. What rumors? What could he know?

"Concerning the Knights of Walpurgis. Such a worrisome organization, from what I've heard. Putting the Ministry through quite a spot of trouble as of late. Sure it's not... keeping you up at night?"

Everything about him infuriated her, from the glean in his eye to the hint of a smile on his lips to the way his fingertips curled over the stupid snake's head of that cane. He was a coward and a bigot and a narcissist, and no more reformed than Bellatrix Lestrange or Barty Crouch Junior ever could have been; she knew others had fallen for his show of remorse and subsequent charitable contributions intended to 'make it right,' but no amount of galleons would ever erase the memories of what he'd done to her and her friends at the Ministry and at Malfoy Manor, nor would she ever be free from the MUDBLOOD etched into her arm at age eighteen while he stood by, watching, and doing nothing, so his gold and "I know better now" meant absolutely nothing to her.

"I don't know where you're getting your information, _sir,_ but I assure you, the Ministry has it under control. Now, can we get this meeting underway? I have another appointment after this one."

"Of course, of course." He lifted one hand from the top of his snake's head walking stick and patted her upper arm. It took everything in her not to cringe and pull away. "You must be terribly busy, you poor dear. How we'd hate to hold you up over something so small an issue as the best education system in the wizarding world. Or shall I say... former best? It seems we have fallen to second, after Ilvermorny." From inside an attache case at his feet, he pulled a copy of THE EDUCATOR, a periodical printed worldwide for witches and wizards seeking to keep up on the latest trends in magical education. In addition to information about universities and apprentice programs, every June issue also contained a breakdown of primary and secondary schools, ranking them based on a series of criteria. For the first time in the hundred-plus years since the first issue went to print, save for 1998 when no ranking was released, the American wizarding institution had stolen the top spot from Hogwarts.

"Embarrassing," said Percy Weasley with a shake of his head as he pulled up a chair. Catching a sharp look from his sister-in-law, he quickly apologized. "It's nothing against you or Professor Snape, Minister! But the Americans having been steadily rising in rank for the last ten years, while we've also watched Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Mahoutokoro improve and excel, narrowing the gap. I fully expected one of them to unseat us at the top in due time, but to lose the spot to the Americans? Not fifty years ago they were still executing people by modified Pensieve and experimenting with erumpent horn fluids."

"I realize we have dropped to second place-"

"Barely a hair above Beaubatons," said Mafalda, set to take notes in her official capacity of stenographer, a job she continued to hold at the Ministry in addition to her duties in the Misuse of Magic office. Hermione hated being in the same room with her. When it came out that the Golden Trio had stolen her hair, clothes, and identity to infiltrate the Ministry during the war, she hadn't been happy.

"I woke up half-dressed and disoriented!" she'd snapped at Hermione during her post-war official deposition. "You can only imagine the thoughts that permeated my every waking moment from that moment on, as I wondered what might have happened to me in that state!"

Though the woman was perfectly polite to her now, Hermione was sure she'd not been forgiven. She was also sure the witch hadn't voted for her to succeed Kingsley.

Between Mafalda looking up from her parchment to shoot Hermione wounded looks every other paragraph, and Percy's pompously given advice for the headmaster regarding how to better managed finances and resources to run the school, and smarmy Lucius's nasty habit of touching her when speaking - squeezing her knee or brushing his hand against hers - and Severus' cold, indifferent expression and occasional deferral to the portrait of Dumbledore when she just wanted him to put the other three in their place, the entire meeting was sheer torture.

When it was over, all she wanted was a drink - and she typically did not drink.

"Shall I walk you to the apparition point, Minister?" asked Lucius, holding out his arm. "The terrain can be most difficult for a witch in impractical shoes like yours. Dangerous footwear leads to injury, as I've told my dear wife on more than one occasion."

(She was wearing a low-heeled boot, not a bloody stiletto. Merlin, how she loathed that man!)

"I'll walk with you, Hermione," said Percy, dropping the formality of her title now that the meeting had concluded. "I wanted to drop by your house anyway, to talk to Ron."

(She knew he had no reason to drop by her house and was merely trying to save her from Malfoy. Sweet, but unnecessary.)

"I'm having dinner in Hogsmeade with a few of the women from the Wizengamot: Lucretia, Amaryllis, and Penelope," said Mafalda. "You're welcome to join us."

(Though Hermione appreciated the invitation, she also knew not one of them would actually be pleased to have to dine with her in their off-time.)

"Thank you," she said, smiling politely. "But I must decline. I was hoping Professor Snape would grant me use of his fireplace so that I can Floo directly to my next engagement. Headmaster?"

She hoped, in calling him Headmaster and not Professor, he'd get the hint - there was no other engagement.

"What's mine is yours, Minister," he said in a flat, bored tone, gesturing toward the crackling fire.

"Thank you, Headmaster. In that case, I'll bid you all farewell." She shook hands with Mafalda, Percy, and Lucius in turn, trying not to react when the vile man practically caressed her palm with the pad of his middle finger when she pulled away.

It seemed to take forever for the trio to finally depart. She and Severus stood in silence, staring at the door, for several minutes afterward, neither trusting that one of them wouldn't return. When she finally turned to face him, she jutted up her chin in a most determined way, hoping beyond hope he wasn't about to bid her adieu and expect her to Floo out.

"Headmaster?"

"Yes?" He cocked one eyebrow. He was seated in the chair behind his desk, casually sipping what was left of the lemon-cucumber gillywater a house elf had served mid-meeting, when they - in particular, the two men who wouldn't shut up - complained of being parched.

"I hope you will not think me crude, impolite, or inappropriate, but I'd like to issue you a request."

He downed what was left in his glass, set it on the desk, and leaned back. "Go right ahead."

"I'm feeling frustrated and... and I'd like you to... to..."

"To prescribe something? I am no Healer, but as a capable Potions Master, I do continue to brew in my off-time, and may have a mild calming solution in my personal stores..."

"I want you to fuck me. Relentlessly. Until I cry."

Behind Severus, Minerva gasped, and several other portrait subjects moved into neighboring frames to whisper (and judge).

They'd been doing this for near on two years, and it still caused quite the scandal among the former headmasters and headmistresses.

"You would like for me to make you... cry?" Now both of his eyebrows were inching toward his hairline. He tapped the side of the glass with the tip of his wand, refilling it.

"I feel I am in need of a good cry, yes. Is that a problem?"

"I believe I can handle such a request, Minister." This time he emptied the glass in two gulps before standing, stretching, and stalking over to her. "But not in my bed. I had another woman in my bed last night and do not believe the house elves have yet done their housekeeping duties. I shall fuck you in the sitting room, against the bookshelves, on the floor, on the table, or on the couch. Your choice."

She dug her fingernails into her upper thighs, willing herself not to react to this news of another woman. Had his wife been to visit? It was possible, as the students had already left for the summer. But if that were the case, why wasn't she present now? Was he shagging someone else? Though it was irrational - Hermione knew she had no claim to him, no right to be hurt or upset or to demand answers - it pained her to think she might not be the only one he was seeing on the side.

"Lucius Malfoy is a foul, vile, disgusting excuse for a man," she said. She wasn't sure why these were the words that left her lips considering his last sentence, but she supposed it was worth stating outright. "He's a pureblood supremacist, he's unfaithful to his wife, and he deserves to rot away in Azkaban. I do not understand how you can maintain a friendship with him, or trust him to raise your own flesh and blo..." Her voice trailed off. One warning look from him told her she'd gone too far.

"It is not your place to question the choices I've made in regards to my eldest child," he said sharply. "My children are none of your concern. If you'd like to spend this evening discussing how to best parent, I suggest you return home to your husband."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes watering. "I just... I hate him. I hate him so very much, and the way he's always touching me, and looking at me, and..."

"He only does it because it bothers you." Severus' expression softened upon seeing the hurt in her eyes. He hadn't meant to make her cry... not this way, anyway. "He's a cad, but we have a long and complicated history, and Delphini... I have less control over Delphini than one would think, considering my relation to her." He ran his hands up and down her upper arms, pulling her toward him in what was the closest to a hug she'd get from him. "I did not mean to snipe at you. It is a sensitive subject. I apologize."

She sighed. It had been a difficult day, starting before sun up. Ron had stumbled home around three-thirty in the morning, reeking of alcohol and cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. He'd awoken their son and because he was too drunk to function, it had been up to her to put the boy to bed again. When she returned to the room she and her husband shared, he was sprawled out face down across the bed, his shirt unbuttoned and flared out like a cape, his trousers down around his mid-thighs, one sock on, one sock off. Snoring.

She undressed him down to his shorts and covered him with a quilt before carrying his clothes to the wash room, which is where she found a note in his pocket.

 _Leslie Braintree_

And a phone number.

The arsehole hadn't only been out with another woman, he'd been out at a Muggle bar trying to chat up another woman! What was he going to do with a phone number? Though he'd worked a phone a couple of times in their youth, the couple didn't have one in the home. She checked his other pocket.

Oh. A cell.

Her husband - her wizard husband, who purported not to know a damn thing about Muggle electricity (and not to care) had a cellular phone. She flipped it open.

Text message after text message, all from a woman named Yvette. Clearly a girlfriend. Clearly a Muggleborn, as she referenced the Ministry and the difficulties of using her cell while at work there, given Muggle technology tended to fritz out when there was an abundance of literal magic in the air.

Yvette had texted him eleven times in the last twelve hours, wondering whether he'd be out of Quidditch practice early enough tonight to meet up.

"Sorry, Yvette." Hermione dropped the phone into the washing machine, started the water, and poured in far too much detergent. "He was out chatting up Leslie. You're yesterday's news, I'm afraid."

After the phone had swished around a bit, she added his dirty white shirt and good trousers, their son's muddy jeans and jumper, and their daughter's brand new neon pink dress. She stopped herself from dropping the contents of her inkwell in as well, not wanting to ruin the children's clothes.

She'd returned to her bedroom, planning to sleep for a couple of hours before having to get ready for work, but he was literally taking up the entire bed. And then Hugo woke up again. And Hugo's crying woke Rose. And before she knew it, Hermione was comforting two children and making breakfast and readying them for school and readying herself for work and basically doing every damn thing there was to do before going off to run the bloody government, because Ron was too pissed to get his arse up out of bed and help.

She wondered if Leslie knew how to fix lunches and do laundry. Maybe he'd be willing to just move her right in. Hermione could use the help.

If Yvette didn't mind.

"Minister?" asked Severus, shaking her free from the memory. "I should not have snapped at you. It has been a frustrating day, and I apologize."

He had a frustrating day too?

It must be going around.

She wondered again who he'd spent the previous night with, and, ultimately, decided she did not care.

"Do you... will you still... in the sitting room?"

"Of course." He kissed her gently, and Minerva tsked from her portrait. "Follow me."

Maybe a good, hard fuck wouldn't take away her problems, but it certainly couldn't hurt.

And if it _did_ hurt, all the better.

Not fifteen minutes later, she was on her hands and knees on his sitting room floor, gasping and groaning as he drove unrepentantly into her from behind. His hands were on her hips, keeping her in place, and he was on his knees. She fell forward, resting her forearms against the rug, liking the way it burned against her skin as her body was propelled forward and dragged back with each thrust.

"So... fucking... tight..." he growled, as one hand moved from her hip to grab hold of the back of her hair, jerking her head up. "Touch yourself."

"I... I can't!" She could barely keep her body from collapsing. He'd been plowing into her for a good five minutes in this position after some of the best foreplay she'd thus far experienced at his hands - or, more accurately, at his tongue.

He yanked harder on her hair. "Do it."

With one trembling hand, she slipped her fingers between her folds, seeking her swollen bud. She rested her forehead on her opposite forearm, digging her fingernails into the carpet. "Ohh!" she whimpered as her fingers made contact with her clit.

"Is it still wet?" he asked. "Or do you need me to lick you again?"

"Wehhhht," she replied with a moan, unable to express a more coherent thought.

"I want to feel your pussy clenching around my cock. Can you do that for me, Minister? Nice and tight."

She always felt tight when he was inside her, namely because he filled her so well, but she did as requested, eliciting a low groan from him.

"Fuck... yes... yes, like that. Good." He jerked back on her hair again and she cried out in response. He really was going to fuck her until she was a sobbing, shaking mess. And she was glad. Or should would be glad, anyway, once it was over.

"Hurt me," she requested, two words that had never before escaped her lips during sex.

"Hurt you?"

"Hurt me. Hit me, choke me... I don't care what you do."

"It's dangerous to give a man like me free range." He suddenly stopped fucking her and pulled out. She'd barely managed a whisper of protest before his hand came down hard on her bare bum. She yelped. She could imagine the imprint of his palm and fingers pink against her skin.

"I can hurt you if you want me to hurt you." In one fluid motion, he'd pinned her on her back, holding her wrists together above her head, with his other hand on her throat, applying light pressure. "How badly shall I hurt you?"

"I..." Hermione's eyes widened fearfully. Though she'd wanted it in the moment, she now felt nothing but terror and trepidation. She'd been held down like this once before, held down with a hand over her wrists and another to her throat... then pinned with her arms to her sides, as if on a cross... and then carved into, like a jack-o-lantern... Crucio. Crucio! CRUCIO! Until she'd passed out, until the world around her went speckled, then black, leaving the witch on top of her free to do whatever she wished...

"No-no-no-no-no," she wailed, shaking her head. "Stop! Stop, please, stop!" She choked out a sob. "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, I'm sorry!"

He released her wrists and slid the hand from her throat to the back of her head, supporting her as he leaned down to kiss the corner of her lips. Once, quick, gently. He then positioned himself beside her, one hand on her abdomen, the other propping up his head. She remained on her back, breathing heavily and staring straight up at the ceiling. He, too, was struggling to breathe evenly.

"I lied," he said. "I lied to you."

"You... lied?" Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks. She had panicked. Swiftly and completely, for the first time in years, at the mere reminder of the torture she'd suffered on the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor. It was humiliating to have fallen apart like that, especially as he was only doing as she'd requested.

"I had no woman in my bed last night. I had biscuits and hot cocoa and I spent two hours with my nose in a Quibbler-produced crossword puzzle book, and what's left is still set on a tray on my unmade bed."

"Oh."

"Come to bed with me."

"I... I... I..." She turned her tearstained face to him, confused. "You're not angry with me? For... for making you stop?"

"I should not have hit you"

"It's alright." She sniffled. "That part I might have liked."

"Then I should not have put my hand on your throat. I-"

"I asked you to." She closed her eyes, unable to look upon him, unable to see the pity in his eyes. She hated looking weak. She felt it undermined her position as Minister and supported the opinion that someone older, more established, and in possession of a penis should have taken office after Shacklebolt. "I'm sorry, Headmaster. I don't know what I was thinking."

"In my defense, Minister, you did begin this evening with the request that I make you cry."

"This wasn't quite the cry I had in mind."

"Come to bed with me," he suggested again. "I'll find another way to make you cry."

"I think I'm cried out."

"I'm sorry for hurting you."

"I'm sorry for asking you to."

"Come to bed with me. I'll not ask again."

She forced herself into a seated position. Though it had been about two years, there was a part of her that couldn't believe this was her, this was her life. She was naked on the sitting room floor of Professor Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and considering his offer to go to bed.

"Could I spend the night?" she asked. Her mother was with the children; who knew where Ron might be? "I'll leave early."

"Spend the night." He leaned over to kiss her. "I'll need all night to make this up to you."

"It's not your fault," she whispered... but she wasn't averse to the thought of him taking all night to make her feel better.

Hurt me. It had been her request.

Spend the night. That was his.

One request each.

One request. One night.

One way to end a frustrating day.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thanks for reading and thanks especially to those who reviewed! I am eyes-deep in edits for my middle grade manuscript, so it'll probably be about a week before I edit this again, and I apologize for the long break between the last chapter and this one. I only have a few more days to get the revisions to my editor and have to therefore focus on that. But in the interim, if you're bored, I posted a Hermione-centric one-shot called Mudblood and chapter one of a Hermione/Draco, Hermione/Lucius, Lucius/Narcissa fic called Someone Like You, plus updated Andromeda Tonks: Long-term, Addict earlier tonight... just sayin'. lol :)

Thanks again!

 **-AL**


	9. One Revelation: May 2013

**JUST ONE NIGHT**

 **CHAPTER NINE:**

 **ONE REVELATION**

 **MAY 2013**

"I cannot do this with you anymore, ever again, Minister." Severus Snape climbed out of bed, picked up a pillow that had been knocked to the floor, threw it against the headboard, and stalked to the window of his Hogwarts bedroom.

"You don't want to have sex with me anymore?" She sniffled and wiped the backs of both eyes with her palms. "Fine. It's fine. I know when I'm not wanted and I'll not stick around to be-"

"I would like to have sex with you on a nightly basis," he said, his voice steady. He did not turn to face her, but rather continued staring out over the dark grounds. "But I cannot make you cry again. I will not. After all these years, it is beginning to weigh heavily on my self-esteem. On my psyche."

"Wha... what?" She sniffled again and blinked several times, trying to keep the tears at bay, but the effort was futile. "I rarely cry."

"Rarely?" He chuckle. "Minister, half of our encounters include a bout of tears, and never on my part."

"That's not true," she protested. "I rarely cry, and you can't say you _never_ have, because-"

Not at all interested in remembering the one time he let his emotions get the better of him, he cut her off.

"When the sex is good, you get overwhelmed, and you cry. When you've had a frustrating day, and you need to vent about it, you cry."

She tossed her hair, which was down over her shoulders today. "That's merely a release of excess emotion that-"

"When your husband has rejected you, you cry. When the media rips you to shreds, you cry."

"It doesn't feel great, reading the awful things they-"

"When you ask me to hurt you, and I do so, you cry." This was what had set him off tonight. "When-"

"That only happened twice!"

"More than twice. And when you experience orgasm in multiples, you cry. When-"

"That's not crying! That's... that's..."

"When you were again tending to my injuries the morning after my attack in June, you cried."

"You were bruised and battered, you'd been-"

He pressed on. "When you-"

"I get it!" She flopped onto her back on the bed, against the pillow he'd thrown. "I cry, I cry, I cry. I am an emotional person, contrary to what the general public thinks of me. Cold, unfeeling, stoic, subdued, boring Hermione Granger-Weasley, not fun, not interesting, not capable of feeling anything, immune to criticism, unaware of her husband's affairs, a swot, a know-it-all, a bitch, a..."

"The rubbish they print about you is untrue." He faced her, finally, his back to the window. He was wearing only his undershorts and she, too, was down to her knickers. It was still relatively early, only about eight-thirty, and cool in the castle, even for late May.

"I have to act as though I don't feel anything too deeply in order to be taken seriously in my position. If I cried at work - can you imagine the headlines? 'Overwrought Minister Sobs Over Murdered Muggleborns. Is She Capable of Serving Society?' As a woman, they look for any sign of weakness and pounce on it, compounding it, using it as ammunition against me. I can't cry at home because my children worry and mother won't let it go, and..."

"You're saying you come to me so you can cry?"

"No." She bristled at this, averting her gaze. "I come to you so I can cum. I just happen to also end up crying on occasion."

He was momentarily thrown by the vulgarity of her word choice, unusual for her, but he pressed on.

"Not 'on occasion.' With increasing frequency."

"I'll go, then!" She slipped from the bed, picked up the pillow, and threw it back down with unnecessary force before going in search of her clothing.

"Don't go."

"I want to go!"

"Please, don't."

"Why shouldn't I? You're sick of seeing me cry, aren't you? And I can't promise I won't do it again-"

"I'm sorry." He took several long strides and was in front of her in a millisecond. He grasped her by her upper arms and waited until she made eye contact. "I do not wish to hurt you physically or emotionally. I do not enjoy making you cry, not even when you request it of me. I realize that you are... that you are, perhaps, more comfortable showing emotion in my presence than I am in yours, and I'm flattered that you deem me safe enough to cry in front of, but when we're mid-fuck and you dissolve into tears, or if during foreplay, you..."

"In the future, I'll try to remember not to cry until _after_ you've gotten off. Will that suffice?" She pulled away, found her blouse, and put it on, but halfway through buttoning she remembered she'd forgotten about her bra. "Where did it land?"

"You're not leaving." He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands folded calmly in his lap.

"You can't tell me what to do or where to go or whether or not I can leave!"

"I want you to stay." He reached out and grabbed her wrist. She turned to him, her blouse open over her bare chest, her eyes still scanning the room for her missing bra. "Please, Minister, I want you to stay. Stay the night. Stay the weekend. Stay until the term ends and the children return home for the summer."

"I... you don't want me to overstay my welcome."

"I don't want you to leave."

He pulled her close, until his nose was nuzzling against her abdomen.

"Another summer is almost upon us."

"I know," she said softly. "Rose will be home soon. I'm looking forward to it. The end of her first year. She says she loves it."

"Delphini will be returning home for the summer, too." He sighed. "To my home on a street called Spinner's End, in a dreary Muggle neighborhood in Cokeworth. Hestia won't allow her around Imogene and Iris and Draco doesn't want her around young Scorpius, thus she cannot return to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa says she's sorry, but she's not sorry. She's relieved."

"Are you worried about two months spent alone with her?"

"Do I fear for my safety, you mean?" He arched an eyebrow. Hermione shrugged. Her tears had subsided, and though she didn't say so, it was clear she wouldn't be leaving. Not now. He tugged at her wrist and, knowing what he wanted, she sat on his knee. He wrapped one arm around her back and settled his opposite hand on her upper thigh.

"Well?"

"I don't know. I don't fancy her telling others where we live. I might ask someone to be Secret Keeper for the home so she can't reveal the location to others. I don't trust her."

"Headmaster..."

"Please, no lecture, Minister. I realize she's a... problem. And getting worse. Students who cross her have 'accidents'. I'm not convinced they're safe with her here at school. She may not be permitted to return next year. I've informed her it will depend upon her behavior over the summer. As much as she loathes me and wishes to strike out on her own, she is determined to finish her education, to learn as much as possible while she has an entire library and professors at her disposal. She does not wish to jeopardize her opportunity to learn. I do not believe she is an inherently 'bad' person regardless of her parentage. She's in with a dangerous crowd, those who espouse the views of the Knights of Walpurgis. They give her a sense of belonging, make her seem important. I know all too well what she's going through. Neglected child with few friends, seeking any way to feel special."

"That's how you were?" Hermione brushed his hair back from his face. He nodded.

"Even the most solitary among us wish to find a place to call home and a like-minded individual to share it with."

She blinked several times, unable to respond to this, as she suddenly got the impression they were speaking more of him than of his daughter.

"Are we 'like-minded individuals,' Headmaster?" she whispered. "You and I?"

"I'd like to think so, Minister." He brought the hand on her thigh up to her ribcage. "Move in with me. Spend the summer at Spinner's End."

Her jaw dropped at the mere suggestion of anything so scandalous.

"I'm married!"

"As am I."

"I have children!"

"As do I."

"You know I can't!" She stood too quickly; she nearly got dizzy and fell back down. She shook her head to clear it.

"How would we explain that away? Tell Ron I'm working overtime for two months? Tell my children I'm on holiday? Tell your daughter - what would we tell your daughter?"

"I'll tell her it's none of her bloody business why you're sharing my bedroom, and to keep to her books and out of trouble if she wishes to finish her Hogwarts education."

Hermione scoffed. "Yes, that'll go over well, I'm sure." She went into the loo to pour herself a glass of water from the tap. He sat on the edge of the bed and stoically awaited her return.

She leaned against the edge of his desk and took a long sip while they stared at each other in silence. It had been a strange night thus far. A strange day. A strange five years. She still felt she barely knew him in some ways, but that they were more intimately connected than she'd ever been with anyone in others. She opened her mouth to tell him what an enigma he remained to her, but his next words halted her.

"I filed for divorce."

Hermione dropped the water glass, which hit the floor and shattered, sending shards in all directions. Neither reached for their wand to vanish the pieces.

"You did what?" she asked after an interminable pause.

"I filed for divorce." Now he reached for his wand. The glass was gone with a wave. "On Monday. I informed Hestia last week that I would be doing so, thus the filing shall come as no surprise. I have decided I simply cannot remain married to her."

"Why?" Hermione folded her arms across her chest and stared down at him. "Does she want another child?"

"Yes."

"Or does - wait, what? She _does?_ " Hermione studied his face for any hint he wasn't serious, but there was no hint of a snarky smile, no teasing twinkle in his eye. "I... I was being facetious."

"Well, facetious or not, you've hit it dead on. Imogene is seven and the baby is going on two and now she wants another. I told her no, absolutely not, I'm done. I told her to get a cat. She said no, she wants a son. I told her to get a male cat. She asked me to reconsider. She's looking forward to my return this summer. She wants to take time to 'fix' our relationship, she even brought up the possibility of counseling, but what we have is broken beyond repair. I think it always has been. Our marriage was build on a foundation of guilt and duty, not love and mutual respect."

"So you filed for divorce?"

"Yes."

"To avoid having another child?"

"Yes. I won't do it again. I never wanted children and now I have three, and the first is... I've fucked up the first, and Imogene - she's the neediest little thing, always crying and clinging to her mother and asking me whether I love her, seeking constant reassurance, which I'm sure is cause for concern. Iris is, thus far, seemingly undamaged, but it's only a matter of time before I ruin her, too. Why start again with a son? And what if it isn't a boy? What if it takes three more pregnancies to get a boy? Will I have six daughters and one son, an inverted Weasley clan? I am no Arthur and she's not Molly."

Hermione shook her head, trying to process this. "I can't believe you filed for divorce."

 _"You_ could file for divorce." He stood and stepped to her, placing his hands on her hips over the fabric of her knickers. "It's not difficult. You're at the Ministry every day. Simply stop by the office of-"

Her face contorted into an expression of panic. "Are you mad? I'm up for re-election this year!"

"You want to show the wizarding world how strong and independent you are? That you're not a bloody doormat? Divorce the man who's been running around with your secretary-"

Hermione choked back a sob. This was what reduced her to tears earlier tonight. He'd been in the process of pleasuring her with his fingers when she suddenly started to cry and revealed her husband's latest fling wasn't with some aging Quidditch groupie or twenty-year-old seeking a social status boost, but with her personal secretary and only close female friend, Cecile.

"Divorce him," he said again, pulling her close. "And fire your secretary."

"Divorce him, why? So you and I can be together? You are leaving your wife so I should leave my husband to be with you? Is that it?"

"Yes," he said simply. He kissed her temple. "We're compatible in a myriad of-"

"You won't even call me by my first name!" She pushed him back. His hands remained at her waist, but they were no longer chest-to-chest. "You insist upon this... this _wall_ between us! You frequently refuse to hold me, you've tossed me out of your bed for-"

"I haven't tossed you out of bed in years."

"You call me 'Minister' as if we hardly know each-"

"And you call me 'Headmaster.' The use of titles when we're together is something _you_ started, remember?" His eyes narrowed. "I am not the only one putting up walls, _Hermione."_

She gasped. She wasn't sure she ever remembered him using her given name before. As a student, she'd been Miss Granger. In her current position, she'd been Minister. In between, those few times he addressed her, it had been simply Granger.

"But you... you..."

"I invited you to spend the night before you requested to spend it, I made the first move five years ago, I made the second months later, I kissed you first, I've asked you to stay the night without sex, I-"

"But... but that's because... you... you didn't want..."

"Have you ever asked me what I want?" His hands slid from her hips to her arse. Her his pelvis bumped against her abdomen.

"I..." She wracked her brain. "No, I suppose I haven't."

"I have advised you to divorce your husband on multiple occasions, as I could see he was not only not good enough for you, but emotionally abusive, but you've insisted-"

"Until just now, I wasn't even sure you _liked_ me!"

"What?" Clearly taken aback, he released her. "How could you say that? How... I... you... After all... five years of..." He pressed his fingertips to his temples, eyes closed, unable to make sense of this. "I've slept beside you and shared meals with you, I've confessed secrets to you and made love to you, and I've read - I've read bloody _romance novels_ aloud to you - and..."

Her jaw dropped. He was hurt. She'd hurt him. And she was... confused.

"You've made love to me?" she whispered. "I... I suppose I didn't know."

"How could you _not_ know?" He returned to the bed, settling himself on the end, and buried his face in his hands. This was humiliating. Here, he'd been falling in love with her for years, thinking it was mutual, and she'd apparently had no idea. It was Lily Evans all over again. How foolish he'd been, how utterly stupid. His face burned behind his hands, but he'd not cry in front of her, not the way he'd scolded her for doing in front of him. He'd not lower himself that far.

"I... I'm sorry." She placed her hand on his shoulder but he shrugged her off.

"You should go." He did not uncover his face. "Your bra landed in the bin."

"Do you want me to go?"

"It's late. I want to get some sleep." He moved to the top of the bed and slipped under the blankets. He turned away from her, facing the wall. "I have a long day tomorrow. It's time we bid each other _adieu."_

Stunned not only by his revelation but by this sudden dismissal, with the use of _that word_ , no less, she merely nodded and went to the bin. She plucked out her bra, gathered her skirt and stockings, and exited into his sitting room to dress and find her shoes.

Once full clothed, she sat on his couch and stared into the dark fireplace. She couldn't depart, not just yet, not on these terms, but her mind was reeling. He was afraid, she told herself. Afraid to spend the summer alone with his daughter, even though he knew her to be incapable of causing him physical harm. Afraid to face the world without his wife, however much he resented her. Afraid to abandon his two younger children, despite thinking it for their own good. He was no coward, she would never label him a coward, but it was clear he was afraid.

And that fear made him vulnerable.

It made him open up.

It made him...

She bent at the waist, resting her forehead against her forearms on top of her knees.

When she'd come to him tonight, she'd asked him to fuck her hard and fast and make it hurt and he'd tried to oblige. He'd started by touching her - too gently, she'd said - and before long he was roughly pumping two fingers in and out of her, his other hand digging painfully into the doughy flesh of her thigh. He'd been groaning and she was gasping and then, suddenly, she was crying and he was done.

But she also thought about other times they'd been together recently.

Back in April, over the Easter holiday, when he'd taken his time with her, kissing and caressing her entire body, bringing her to orgasm twice before slipping inside her, riding her slowly and sensually until he lost control, spasmed several times, and spent himself inside her, moaning her title into her ear as he did so. Then he'd wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed the back of her neck and they'd fallen asleep in this position, and in the morning he insisted she join him for breakfast before departing because she had a long day of meetings with foreign dignitaries ahead.

"I know you," he'd said. "You'll run yourself ragged for them and not stop to eat and by dinnertime you'll be lightheaded and weak from hunger."

She couldn't remember the last time Ron had worried about whether she was eating regularly enough, though it had only been a couple of months since he'd walked in on her stepping out of the shower and said, "Oy, Hermione, have you gained weight?"

An entire year. That's how long her husband had been seeing her secretary. Twelve months. She'd gone home at lunch today to retrieve a forgotten folder to find them in bed together. He didn't even give her the courtesy of finding out in a less cliched way, no, she had to walk into her bedroom to find them fucking.

"I thought you were home sick today," Hermione said, staring at Cecile, who hurried to cover her bare breasts. "I sent you a get well fruit basket."

"I'm so sorry, Hermione." Cecile climbed from the bed wrapped in their sheet, a sheet Hermione had purchased because the shade of blue matched that of her favorite curtains. "We didn't mean for this to happen."

"How long?" she asked Ron. She was oddly calm. Perhaps because she'd known for years that he was stepping out on her, this didn't come as the shock it should have, though it wounded her deeply to know how close to home his conquests had become.

"A year," he said. "It's our, uh, anniversary. Today."

"Happy anniversary, then." She went to her desk and found the folder. "I need this for an afternoon meeting, but I do apologize for interrupting your... celebration."

She returned to her office via Floo, glad she didn't have to enter the Ministry the way everyone else did, as she didn't think she could face other people today. She cancelled her afternoon meeting and headed to see Severus as soon as it was an acceptable time for her to depart (five pm exactly).

When she stepped out of the fireplace in Severus' office, his head snapped up. He could tell something was wrong, though whether it was by Legilimency or intuition she was unsure.

He'd rushed to her and taken her in his arms and asked her what was wrong, and in the moment it didn't strike her as odd, even though it hadn't been so long ago that she couldn't even hold his hand in bed post-sex without fear it would prompt him to say goodbye and send her away.

"He's sleeping with my secretary," she said.

"I'm sorry," he'd said.

They didn't speak much over dinner, and afterward he spent an hour reading aloud to her (from a mystery novel, not a romance, but still). She found the sound of his voice soothing and by the time they retired to his bedroom, she was almost over the shock of it all.

That's when she'd asked him - not for the first time - to make it hurt. And he'd fucked her with his fingers and she'd cried and he'd stalked from the bed and...

And she couldn't leave. Not tonight. Not like this.

She removed her stockings and blouse and skirt and bra. The black t-shirt he'd been wearing under his frock coat earlier was draped over the end of the couch; she put that on. She let herself back into his bedroom, which was now dark.

"Are you awake?" she asked.

He did not answer.

She knelt on the bed and touched his shoulder.

"I can't spend the summer with you. I have children."

"I know." He did not move, nor did he open his eyes, but at least she knew he was awake. She slid under the covers and wrapped her arm around him, placing her hand on the center of his chest.

"For what it's worth, I think I love you... Severus."

There was a long silence, so long she wondered if he didn't hear her.

"Severus, I said-"

"Don't say that if you don't mean it."

"I wouldn't. I _do_ mean it."

He repositioned himself so he was flat on his back. She nestled close, resting her cheek against his chest, and relaxed when his hand moved up to the back of her neck, where he scratched at her hair the way she liked.

"Did you genuinely doubt that I _like_ you?"

"I've been too afraid to try and define our relationship. And you have to admit, it's... unique. Do you love me?"

"I do not wish to jeopardize your reelection."

"But do you love me?"

"And I do not want to be responsible for any pain your children might suffer."

"Fine." She threw one leg across his. "But do you _love_ me?"

"More than _he_ ever could." He kissed her forehead and she sighed. "More than I thought I was capable."

Well, then." She hugged her arm around his waist and was gratified when his tightened his grip around her in response. "Where do we go from here?"

"Where, indeed." He tilted up her chin and kissed her again, this time on the lips. They made eye contact in the dark, and neither wanted to be first to break it. After a long moment, he suggested, "Let's sleep on it."

"Alright." She closed her eyes, but she knew sleep would not be coming quickly tonight. "Goodnight, Severus."

"Goodnight, Hermione." He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, to kiss her inner wrist. "I love you."


End file.
